


Suck It, Howard Carter

by hallo catfish (ryuujitsu)



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: I Don't Know Where This Is Going, I wrote this listening to bhangra and I can't help feeling that that's wrong, M/M, The Mummy AU, downhill, i don't know why i did this, it's going downhill, weird AUs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2017-12-16 07:25:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 67,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryuujitsu/pseuds/hallo%20catfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Wind in the Wadi, or Gavin, NO!  Being the story of two adventurers and one deranged accidental necromancer (and, let's face it, a butt-ton of the recently undead in flapping linen bandages) in 1920s Egypt.  Wherein Ray turns out to be just as good at Indiana Jones-ing it up as he is at videogames and Michael knows that Gavin Free is a menace to society and possibly the entire world but can't help being <em>a little bit incredibly</em> attracted to him anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue (I have a bad feeling about this)

**Author's Note:**

> I accidentally vague Mummy AU! with a side of dieselpunk! Sorry!
> 
> When I was a serious fic writer, _back in the day_ , I used to go through a lot of trouble for historical and scientific accuracy, not to mention trying to keep everything in character and taking pains to write convincing plot twists and give characters motivations that fit in with their canon personalities, stress about updates, deadlines, about eternal WIPs, not using the same descriptive words or fancy verbs twice in the same chapter, blah blah &etc. _I didn't do that this time_. This is pure Id, guys. Results may vary.
> 
> That said, if you see something that you think is wrong, weird, or all around shitty, please do feel free to let me know so I can fix it.
> 
> (Speaking of shittiness and anachronisms, “fuck” and all its variations don't match the early 20th century settings that exist in my imagination. But fuck that! It's not Michael Jones unless there is unabashed, constant irreverent swearing.)
> 
> I’m having fun writing this, and I hope you’re having fun reading.

_1923, The Middle of Nowhere, Egypt._

Michael Jones had spent most of his early twenties (and coincidentally, most of the early Twenties) running for his life.  Luckily or unluckily, he didn’t run alone.  He and his good buddy Ray Narvaez, Jr., lately of the Big Apple, had gone full-out sprinting for their lives in exotic locales around the world, escaping the henchmen of American oil barons in South Dakota, some really pissed off Indonesian pirates in the South China Sea, and a handful of militant possible-yetis in the Himalayas just last year, to name a few such close encounters in said exotic locales (and not to mention all the other close shaves they’d had in more boring places like Secaucus, New Jersey, and Mechanicsville, PA, and God knows what other towns up and down the East Coast of the United States).  

****

This time, they were in Egypt, deep in the Eastern Desert, and nearer to death than Michael usually liked to be.  Out of the frying pan of Tuareg raiding parties into the adjacent and just-as-bad-if-not-worse all-encompassing deathtrap that was an Egyptian sandstorm.

****

"Oh shit, oh shit—"  Michael was babbling; his fingers weren't cooperating; he couldn't work his jacket over his mouth—they were going to get buried alive and no one would find their skeletons and what the hell was Ray's Mama gonna think when they didn't come back for Christmas, didn't write—the sand was going to flay his skin from his body—

****

All around them the hot air was beginning to stir; the sand was whipping; the wind wailed.

****

Then Ray punched his shoulder and yelled, "There!" and Michael saw, rising over Ray's pointing finger, wavering like water in the harsh light, the outlines of sunken ruins.

****

They ran like hell, stumbling and cursing over the sand.

****

"Oh god oh man," Ray was chanting; then, quietly and emphatically, "fuck!" as he tripped and went down.  Swearing in a continuous, venomous stream Michael hoisted him under the arms, ignoring his yell of protest, and dragged him behind the half-buried wall of a building cut from sandstone.  A second later the sandstorm broke over them with a high hellish scream and the crash of wind and sand.

****

They huddled together, Michael yelling obscenities into his knees, Ray's nose and mouth pressed into his shoulder and his jacket pulled down over both their heads, while the sand whipped around them and scored the places where their skin was bare.  Then, as swiftly as it had come, the storm spun away, leaving them stunned and raw.

****

For a long while neither of them spoke.

****

"Fuck," Ray said, finally, lifting the jacket and pouring sand down both their shirts.

****

Michael raised himself onto his hands and knees, worked the sand from his teeth, spat.  "You good?"

****

"Yeah, I'll live, I think.  Well, that sand went into new and unexplored regions of my body.  Damn."

****

As the high, mournful keening of the sand began to fade away, Michael became aware of the rising silence.  There was no movement in the air around them, no sound of sand shifting on dunes in the distance.  He could hear the blood beating in his ears and his own harsh breaths, unnaturally loud in the stillness.

****

Ray said, "What the fuck."

****

Michael looked up.

****

The storm had unburied some of the ruins around them.  As far as Michael could tell, they were in the middle of an entire goddamn ancient city, sitting beneath a statue made of pure shadow.

  


 

 

It looked like Anubis (Michael had done his research; he knew his pagan gods), but it had warped over time; it was misshapen and one of the jackal's staring eyes, cut from lapis lazuli, had vanished.  Looking up at the remaining eye and the empty socket, Michael felt a humming start up inside of him.  There was an oily taste in his mouth.  He shifted back, uneasy.

****

Ray was laughing hysterically.  "Move over, Howard Carter," he gasped.

****

His voice sounded like thunder in the silence, and Michael couldn't shake the feeling that it was going to bring something predatory down on them out of the still desert sky.  He elbowed Ray, hard.  "Shut up—shut the fuck up.  It's just paint.  It's just wood and paint."

****

The jackal seemed to grow before his eyes until it loomed over him, filling his vision.  Of their own will his fingers began to twitch towards his holster.

****

"Just wood and paint," Michael repeated, glaring at it and just fucking daring it to make any sudden moves.

****

The outlines of the statue were blurring, and just for a moment he thought—he wasn't sure, but—he thought he could see the figure of a man:  a dead black shape that sucked the light from the glaring sun and gave nothing back.

****

He grabbed Ray by the arm.  "Hey, you know what?  Let's go.  Let's get out of here."

****

Ray blinked at him, started to frown—

****

"What?  You're joking, right?  Let's look around.  I bet we could—"

****

Michael shook Ray's arm, impatient.  He wasn't about to stay to find out what the hell was going on.  "C'mon.  Let's go, let's _go_.  Come on."

****

They hadn't survived as long as they had without trusting each others' instincts.  Ray met Michael's eyes and nodded.

****

They hadn't gone more than two hundred feet when Ray sent a longing glance back, did a double-take, and swore.  Michael spun around and saw nothing— _nothing_.  The buried city had disappeared.

  
  
  


 

 

_1923, The Middle of Bumfuck Nowhere, We're Probably Going to Die in This Goddamn Desert, Egypt._

Michael Victory Jones, stripped to his shirtsleeves and slowly frying in the mid-morning sun, was a mess of shiny red regret.  

****

Beside him Ray adjusted his makeshift kufiya for the thousandth time and squinted down at the map.  

****

Michael slapped it out of his hands.  "For the love of God, we're lost.  Accept it.  Jesus Christ, I'm gonna burn to death."

****

"You weren't made for this climate, white boy," Ray said.    

****

"Shut the fuck up.  Neither were you.   _Fuck_ you."

****

"Come on.  Don't give up now.  Not when we’ve come so far."  

****

He could see the shit-eating grin on Ray’s face; Ray was winding him up.  Well, fuck it.  He was wound up.  "We've been wandering this godforsaken wasteland for three goddamn days— assholes on horse are taking potshots at us—fucking sandstorms left and right—our camel fucking died, Ray, it died, I thought camels were supposed to be good at deserts—"

****

"Yeah, you talk that talk.  But keep walking.  Something tells me we're on the right track."

****

"Fuck you," Michael started to say, and then as they came over the crest of the dune he saw the oasis:  a brilliant unexpected green amid the dust and sand.  There were riders clustered around it watering their horses, and what looked like a group of Bedouin, too.  "Oh."

****

"Looks about right," said Ray, the smug bastard.

  
  


 

 

The Bedouin were friendly, and in the shade of the oasis grove, Michael tore into the dates and dried meats he was offered, and washed it all down with dark, sweet coffee boiled from the oasis well.  They thought his burned face was hilarious and took turns laughing at him, puffing out their cheeks and holding their breath until their own faces flushed purple.  

****

Ray was drinking coffee slowly, poring over the map and bouncing his compass on his knee.  Michael kicked at his ankle.  "Will you give it a rest?  These guys are headed west.  We can travel with them.  We're not too far from Beni Suef; they'll take us to the outskirts of the Bani."

****

"There's something strange about this place," Ray said.  

****

"What, doesn't match the map?  It's a goddamn desert, Ray; it ain't the New York City grid."

****

"Yeah, maybe."  Ray frowned.  "I can't put my finger on it.  It's like we're going in circles.  The land's changing around us."

****

Michael swallowed back any mention of the city that had melted away into oblivion; grinned wide instead.  "No shit.  Dunno if you noticed, but deserts are made of sand.  You know, sand?  That stuff that blows around in the wind and changes shape all the fuckin’ time?"

****

"Screw you, man.  All I'm saying is it's weird.  I mean, that city—"  He stopped at the look in Michael's eyes.  "Ah, whatever."

****

When Michael mentioned the ruins, the shadow—even the storm that had chased them into the hidden city—thinking they might know something, might offer a piece of local lore, the Bedouin stared at him like they didn't understand.  They motioned at his head, and then the sun, and his head again, and gave the impression that they thought he had cracked.  After a while, Michael gave up.  He and Ray had marked the coordinates on their map, anyway.

  
  


 

 

Night fell, and Michael, pleased at first as he always was at the relief of sunset, soon found himself—as he always was—shivering in the cold moonlight despite his jacket.  The stars were abundant here—nothing like back home in Jersey.  He stared into the sky and wondered if this was what the ancients had seen whenever they looked up.  Draco still looked nothing like a fucking dragon, though.

****

At dusk, after a second meal of dried meats and fruits and an exchange of song and story, the riders had moved off, taking half the Bedouin with them.  The remaining four were traders looking to reach Faiyum by the end of the week; they were the ones who had offered to take Michael and Ray to the Nile.  He glanced to his left and saw them huddled there asleep on the ground, looking all cozy in their piles of blankets by their fire.

****

His own fire had burned to embers.  He stirred it half-heartedly with his boot.

****

"Yo," Ray said, looming up beside him.

****

"Jesus, you scared me," Michael said.  "What?"

****

"Look, I know you had some kind of reaction when we were in those ruins," Ray said.  "I won't deny that it was weird.  That statue—it scared me too.  But look at this."

****

He dropped something heavy and warm into Michael's outstretched hand.  Under the faint but steady beam of Ray's Eveready flashlight, he saw the gleam of gold.

****

"I found it in the sand, back there in those ruins," Ray said.  "Right there—between my feet."

****

"What is it?" Michael said, hushed.  The moonlight seemed to dim, all of a sudden, as he remembered the statue standing over him—but the gold in his palm, the disc—it felt neutral somehow—good, even.  He turned it over and over, squeezed it.

****

A rustle of cloth; Ray was shrugging.  "Hell if I know.  It'll get us something at market, though.  Replace the camel and then some."

****

Michael shook his head as he handed it back.  "Let's keep it," he said.  "Proof we saw what we did.  Proof we saw that city."

****

Ray was quiet a moment.  "I thought you'd want to forget it," he said.  "Never seen you so shaken up, brother."

It was Michael's turn to shrug.  "I get the feeling that whatever that was out there—whatever it was, that’s not the last we’re gonna see of it."


	2. Gavin, no!

_September, 1925.  Probably not Cairo.  
  
_ Michael had been doing a lot of reflecting on his poor decisions lately.  At least, he had been a few minutes ago.  Right now, though, he was trying not to think at all and doing his best to keep his grip on Ray’s hand as he dangled over the black waters of the Nile and a fucking  _hailstorm_ of bullets whizzed overhead, splintering the wooden railings.  

 

Ray didn’t look too happy.  His arms were starting to shake, too.  Michael held on tighter.  “Why the fuck did you do that, you moron?” he yelled. 

 

“That asshole was chucking fucking sharp-ass projectiles all over the place!”

 

Ray shouted, “He has terrible aim!  Most of them went overboard!”

 

“Shut up, fuckhead, how the hell was I supposed to know?” Michael screamed back.  “Shut up and pull!  There are motherfucking crocodiles in the water!  What are you gonna tell your mama if you let me get eaten by fucking crocodiles?  Fuck you, Ray!”  

 

Grunting, Ray hauled him back over onto the riverboat.  Michael would have been relieved, except the boat was on fire.  There was no lesser of two evils here.  There were just bad choices.

 

Just in time, they dove behind some conveniently placed crates.  More bullets thudded down around them.

 

“Shoutout to antagonists with unrealistically shitty aim,” Ray said, breathing hard.

 

“I fucking hate Egypt,” Michael said.  “This was a bad idea.  This was the worst idea.  Tell my family I hate them.  Tell your mama she was okay.”

 

“Sorry,” said Ray, eloquently.

 

“Fuck, bro, it’s not your fault,” Michael said.  “I forgive you, man.”

 

“Oh, well, thanks.”

 

The thing was, it really wasn’t Ray’s fault this time.  There was a reason they were in this mess.  The reason called himself Gavin Free.  Michael was gonna call him a fucking idiot.

 

Speaking of—

 

A screaming, squawking shadow with what seemed to be five or six flailing arms came staggering by.  Words that were not part of any language, living or dead, that Michael had ever heard of burst into the night.

 

“You noncy flubbin’ tosspot, gerroff me, oh knobs!  Aaaaah!!  Michael!  Michael, help!”

 

“Your turn,” said Ray sympathetically.

 

“ _Fuck everything,_ ” Michael said.

 

 

 

 

 _September, 1925.  Still Cairo.  About twelve hours ago, maybe?  Fuck it, who cares._  

As usual, Michael couldn’t get over how good it felt to be back in civilization, even if his definitions of civilization varied wildly from Mama and Papa Narvaez’s luxurious New York digs to shitholes in the stinking heart of Cairo.  Anywhere he could continue to break down his liver with passable-to-decent alcohol was on par with the Ritz in his book, and usually less full of assholes, which meant that, on the whole, Michael Jones felt comfortable in a lot of places all over the world.

 

He’d been having nightmares ever since they got back from the Eastern Desert a couple years ago, so bloody and filthy and sand-encrusted that it had taken him almost a week to scrub the dirt away from his skin.  He had relished the steamer journey back to the States and had almost been looking forward to the rest of his life away from deserts, beaches, and sandy embankments, too, until it became apparent that he would  _never sleep again_  until they went back to Egypt.  Ray hadn’t said anything, but Michael was pretty sure he was having dreams too, good or bad; that was why they were in Cairo now, after a stint in the Weimar Republic that had ended  _really badly_ , rotating shifts between swanky hotels and stuffy Cairo museums, trying to learn whatever they could about their golden disc and its origins in the vanishing city.  Anything to wipe the shadows from under their eyes, to stop the jackal man chasing him through his dreams.

 

Ray hadn’t stopped talking about Egypt the entire time they were in Germany, and it was only getting worse now that they were back.  He was constantly spouting facts about some eighteenth dynasty or fucking whatever, coming home to their shitty room with his pockets full of broken amulets of fat hippopotamus goddesses and pillars and fucking Nile reeds cut from turquoise and worn smooth by the centuries.  Michael had to admit some of it was pretty interesting—hell, he could listen to Ray talk about that whole thing with Horus and Seth for hours—but most of the time he was staring at the horizon over the rim of his glass, wondering what lay beyond.

 

He was doing exactly that in the courtyard of Shepheard’s, getting some concerned glances from the staff and a few frankly disgusted looks from a pair of ladies in those stupid enormous hats, when Ray popped up in his peripheral vision.

 

“Hey, Michael,” Ray said.  “Guess what?”

 

“Tawaret,” Michael said instantly.  “Carnelian.  New Kingdom.”

 

Ray blinked at him.  “Impressive, but no.  Guess again.”

 

“Fuck you.  I don’t give a shit.”

 

Ray grinned, unfazed.  “You will in a moment.  I found a guy who knows about the city.  More than that—he’s been there.”

 

“He’s lying.  He’s fucked in the head.”

 

“Be that as it may, it’s the best lead we’ve had in weeks.  And if he is lying, you can punch him in the mouth.  You can punch him twice.  I’ll stand back and let you go to work.”

 

Michael threw back the rest of his drink.  “Well, when you put it that way.”

 

 

 

“The thing is,” Ray said, as they stood outside the prison gates, “I kind of forgot to mention he’s been condemned to hang.  You know, by the neck.  Until dead.”

 

“Jesus fuck,” Michael said.  “What is he, a murderer?  You were gonna let me punch a murderer in the face?  Thanks, asshole.”

 

“Uh, not quite,” Ray said.  “You’ll see.  Anyway, I had to bribe the prison warden to delay the sentence, so I sold your Enfield.”

 

“You asshole, I had to play three hundred games of poker with my old man before I won it off him!” Michael said, but Ray just patted him on the back and steered him through the gates.

 

 

 

The wild-haired, gangly, giant-nosed man that met Michael’s eyes through the iron bars was so far from what Michael had imagined that he stopped dead and just stared.  He looked incapable of anything that would land you in an Egyptian prison with your own personal guard to lead you around by your tied wrists.

 

“Hey, buddy,” Ray said, slipping the guard another banknote and nodding toward a group of prisoners milling around in the distance.  “A little private time here with my friend, eh?  Thanks.”

 

“Wotcha,” the man said, looking Michael up and down.  “Ray says you’ve got something of mine.”

 

“Uh, do I?” Michael said.  He shot Ray a look.  “Do I, Ray?”

 

“That medallion around your neck, yeah?” the man said.  “Big flashy gold thing?  Thought I lost it.  You found it.  That’s mine.  Like it back, actually.”

 

“I beg your pardon?” Michael said, dangerously.  “What makes you think I have anything that belongs to you?”

 

“Well, I just have a feelin’.  ’S mine, innit?  Anyway, I can see it under your shirt.  Mincey pricks musta nicked it off me after they chased me off.”

 

He was speaking some kind of English, but all the same, Michael had had an easier time communicating with yak herders in Tibet through the medium of interpretive dance.

 

Ray took pity on him and translated.  “He says he had a run-in with some guys on horseback.  Tuareg, probably.  They chased him off and left him to die in the desert.”

 

The man nodded emphatically.  “That’s right.  Didn’t die though, did I?  Bloody idiots.”

 

“You’re gonna die now,” Michael said, like the asshole he was.

 

For a second the guy looked scared, and Michael almost felt bad.  Almost.  “I thought you were gonna help me,” he said to Ray.  “I thought you were gonna get me out of this, if I agree to take you back to the city.”

 

“We don’t need him,” Michael said to Ray.  “We got the map.”

 

The man was shaking his head, grinning.  “Ain’t gonna be of any use, lads.  The city changes.  The city  _moves_.  I’m the only one who knows where it is.  I’m the only one who can ever find it.  You let them hang me, that’s it.  Nobody will ever find the city again.”  He looked into Michael’s eyes.  “Nobody will be able to stop the jackal man.”

 

His next sentence dissolved into a squawk as Michael reached through the bars and grabbed him by the throat, dragging him forward.  “How the fuck do you know about that?” he hissed.  

 

“Know things, don’t I,” the man said.  He yelped as Michael slammed him against the bars, once, twice—but regained his composure pretty quickly, which Michael had to respect.  “Go on, then.  Do we have a bargain?”

 

Michael pressed his fingers into the man’s throat.  He could feel his pulse there under the skin, beating fast and hot.

 

He remembered the jackal man, and the hands made of shadow, reaching out to pull him into the dark:  the feeling of being buried alive, sand in his eyes and mouth.

 

He stepped back.  “Deal.”

 

The man’s smile washed over him like brilliant summer sunshine.  “You’re a top bloke,” he said, which Michael took to mean that he was pleased.

 

He patted the man awkwardly on the forearm through the bars.  “Yeah, well.  Let’s get along.  What’s your name, buddy?”

 

“Gavin.  Gavin Free.”

 

“You can’t tell me that’s not ironic as fuck,” Ray said.

 

Gavin giggled.  “’Suppose it is.  And you’re Michael.  Michael Jones.  Michael V. Jones.   _Pleasure_  to be workin’ with you,” he said, and before Michael could understand what was happening he had reached forward with his bound hands, grabbed Michael by the shirt and planted a big sloppy kiss right on his mouth.

 

It was pretty goddamn surprising, and Michael didn't think anyone would blame him for leaning in for just a second and kissing back.  What the hell else was he supposed to do?  It wasn’t the worst kiss of his life, either, but he’d face a firing squad and an entire army of Viking berserkers before he ever admitted that.  But eventually his brain caught up with him and he slapped at Gavin’s chest in the most effete way possible and staggered backwards, clawing at his own mouth and spluttering.  

 

“Mmph—Jesus fuck, what the fuck are you doing?” he said, through gritted teeth.  He looked around the prison grounds wildly but it didn’t look like anyone had noticed.  Thank fuck for that.

 

“Expressin’ my gratitude!” Gavin said, wide-eyed.  “Livin’ it up a bit!”

 

“Hey, I accept your gratitude,” Ray said, taking a few steps back and raising his hands skyward.  “No need for physical gestures.  I’m good.”

 

“What the actual fuck is wrong with you?” Michael hissed.  “That shit’s against the law here!  Fuck, it’s against the law pretty much everywhere!”

 

Gavin just laughed.  “What do you think I’m in for, you knobhead?”

 

 

 

 

_Shepheard’s again, south-facing wing._

They had to give the warden the rest of the money from the sale of Michael’s dearly departed Enfield and promise him a cut of their next five tomb-raiding expeditions before they could take Gavin out and saw the ropes from his hands.  After that Michael had to physically hold Gavin’s hand, like he was a child or something, and steer him through the Cairo crowds, holding tight so he wouldn’t wander off, until they reached the hotel.

 

Ray stayed at the front desk to ask if they had any letters, while Michael—glaring fiercely at anything that moved or breathed—led Gavin upstairs to their room.

 

“Well, this is tippity top!” Gavin exclaimed, spinning around in the room like a giddy scarecrow.  “Look at these fancy digs!  Hey, Michael—”

 

“Touch me again and I’ll put a hole in your head,” Michael said.

 

“Yeah, all right,” Gavin said, waving his hands around.  “Don’t get your pantaloons in a guffin,” or at least that’s what Michael thought he said.

 

Then he disappeared into the bathroom, fairly trilling with delight, and soon after Michael was dozing off to the sound of running water.

 

 

 

It was dreamless, for a while—real deep, real good.  He was floating in a lake, in black, pristine water, his body weightless, all the aches gone.  But then the shadows started to creep towards him and blood stained the water.  

“Little man, little man,” said the jackal, prising open his jaws, his breath rank on Michael’s face.  Michael screamed and kicked; he was a little kid again, alone and lost in Kittatinny Valley, and the dark was rising to swallow him whole.  “I’ve got you now.”

 

 

 

“Oi, Michael.  Michael!  Michael Jones!”

 

There was an unfamiliar man on the bed beside him, shaking him by the shoulder and calling his name.  Michael lurched upright.

 

“Who the fuck are—oh— _Gavin_?”

 

“That’s right, ’s me, mate.”  Gavin smiled at him.  “You all right?”

 

Gavin’s hand was on his back now, rubbing in little circles, and it was warm and gentle and really good, actually, and whoa, no.  Michael shrugged him off.  “I’m fine,” he said shortly, and, looking away to compose himself, “What the fuck did you do to your—your head?”

 

Gavin had shaved, and he had shaved  _everything_.  His scraggly beard had gone, as had most of his hair, now so closely cropped that Michael could see his scalp shining through, strangely pale and pink.  He was, all in all, glistening, bathwater running down his throat still, and had an air of being both smug and well-scrubbed, if that was even possible.  He had stretched himself out across the bed in a long, lean line, radiating contentment; if he were a cat he might be purring now.

 

Michael wished he hadn’t done it.  His hair had been the one pretty thing about him, as unkempt as it had been; now it was hard not to see his face as being composed of mostly nose, and even harder to ignore the brilliant green of his eyes.

 

“Sure you’re all right, mate?” said Gavin.

 

“I said I’m fine,” Michael snapped.  “Where’s Ray?”

 

“Sendin’ some telegrams,” Gavin said.  “He, uh, he didn’t want to bother you.  Said it was the most sleep you’ve had in days.  They wear you down, the dreams, don’t they?”

 

Michael turned a baleful eye on him.  “How would you know?”

 

Gavin seemed not to hear him.  “That city,” he said, slowly.  “The city that lies beneath the sand.  There’s evil there, ’s why it’s buried.  But there’s treasure, too.”

 

“I don’t give a fuck about the treasure,” Michael said.  “But if there’s evil there, I’m gonna put it down.”  He didn’t like how Gavin was looking at him, all soft and tender and kind of amused.  It was making his insides do weird things.  “Look, Gavin—”

 

“Go back to sleep,” Gavin said.  “I’ll keep the jackal man away.”

 

 

 

 

_Later.  Back on the boat.  Probably not in Cairo anymore (and definitely not in fucking Kansas)._

Yeah, so, Papa Narvaez had wired some money, they were taking the riverboat back down to Beni Suef, and the riverboat was on fire.  The bullets smashing into the boat lanterns might have had something to do with spreading it, but the first blaze, the big-ass bonfire in the middle of the stables—that was all down to Gavin and whatever fucknut had thought it might be a good idea to leave a lit torch lying around within easy reach of idiots.

 

Gavin had ditched the torch (obviously) and was now running around with an assailant clinging to his back, flailing at him with some kind of terrifying hook-hand.  Michael was getting really tired of this shit.  He grabbed the guy by the neck and heaved him overboard.

 

“O-oh!” Gavin looked pathetically glad to see him.  “Michael!”

 

“Get under cover, you fucking idiot,” Michael shouted, and then he yelled in shock and pain as Mister fucking Giant-Hook-for-a-Hand came flying back over the railing and embedded his motherfucking hook  _in Michael’s shoulder_.

 

Give us your money and no one gets hurt, they'd said, after a warning shot into a table, and in no less than three languages, which had been impressive and all:   _Haut les mains!  Ferme-là!_ Just hand it over and no one gets hurt, yes, the watches too, gentlemen, but Michael was pretty sure that particular agreement was no longer in effect.  He almost didn't blame them.  He would have opened fire too if some crazy Brit had jumped to his feet shouting, "Not a chance, ya smeggin' tossers!" and started shooting holes into the deck and walls with a revolver he'd fucking  _stolen_ out of Michael's knapsack.  While screaming.

 

Gavin was still screaming.  A lot.

 

“Michael!  Oh, Michael!  Oh, my god, Michael!  Sock him, Michael!   _Michael, he’s after the bloody medallion_!”

 

“FUCK THE MEDALLION.  THERE IS NOTHING IN THE WORLD WORTH THIS SHIT,” Michael bellowed, as he rammed the guy on his back into the railing again and again, trying to dislodge him.  “FUCK YOU.  FUCK YOU.   _FUCK YOU—_ ”

 

“Give it here, you tosspot!” Gavin yelled.  “It’s the goddam’ medallion he wants, you mingey dope!”

 

“ _SPEAK. ENGLISH_!” Michael screamed, but he reached up and tore the medallion from his neck and hurled it at Gavin’s face.

 

Three things happened at once.  One, Captain Hook dislodged himself from Michael’s back and leapt into the air, hand and bloodied hook outstretched; two, Gavin caught the medallion; and three, every fucking fuck still on board changed direction with hideously well-tuned choreography and started gunning straight for him.

 

Michael met Gavin’s eyes in a moment of total mutual panic.  

 

And then, of course, the boat exploded.

 

 

 

 

 

Ray had already made it to the bank and was waiting by a pile of supplies by the time Michael and Gavin waded ashore.  He was waiting with guns drawn, though, and nearly took off Michael’s head when they came up through the reeds.

 

It turned out he had noticed the engine fire and bailed almost a full minute before the explosion, escaping the worst of the blast.  Gavin was bruised and only slightly bloodied—but looked so dazed Michael thought he might have sustained some kind of head injury.  As for Michael himself, there were bits of fucking boat embedded in him, not to mention the oozing shoulder wound Captain Hook had inflicted.  It was small, but deep; Michael was pretty sure the hook had gone all the way to the bone.

 

For a while they just sat there on the bank, wet through and through, just breathing.  They could hear other survivors moving around in the reeds on the opposite bank, men and women speaking a jumble of languages, crying out in relief or pain—flickering torches—there were goats and horses in the water, too.  Ray looked at Michael and shook his head.  The attackers had gone, whoever the fuck they were, but they might be back, for revenge if not for gold; it was better to be missing, presumed dead.  Michael thought it was too much to hope that those fuckers had all been blown to smithereens.

 

They moved down river and salvaged what they could from the shallows, working by the light of the moon.  Ray fished the map out of his shirt pocket.  It was ruined—half-burned and soggy.

 

“Well, fuck,” he said.

 

“Not to worry, fellas,” said Gavin.  “I’m the map, remember?  Michael saved the medallion, anyway,” and he beamed at Michael so happily and sunnily it seemed like the whole goddamn bank lit up for a second.

 

Ray sighed, balled up the map, and threw it into the river.

 

“Let’s go,” he said, hoisting a dripping pack onto his shoulder.  “I hear that the hippos here can bite men in half.  Might not be true, but who wants to find out, am I right?”

 

 

After an hour of staggering around, Michael declared that his shoulder fucking hurt, his entire body hurt, and he wasn’t going another step further, and moreover there was no goddamn good reason to keep wandering around in the dark when they didn’t even know where they were.  They were probably going in fucking circles.  Ray conceded he might have a point.

 

They found a ditch and set up camp, making their beds out of river reeds.  Michael was having some trouble moving his arm, said fuck you to the reeds, and lay down on the wet ground.

 

Gavin scooted down beside him.  “Michael...”

 

“What?” Michael grunted.

 

“Michael, you—you  _shielded_  me,” Gavin said, sounding breathless.  “When—when the boat blew up.  Why?”

 

“You’re our goddamned map, you moron,” Michael said, and he could  _hear_  Gavin deflating.  “Like I was gonna let anything happen to you.”

 

“O-oh,” Gavin said.  “Right.”  He wriggled around a bit and finally settled on his side, his back to Michael.  “Well, goodnight, lads." 

 

“’Night,” Ray mumbled, half gone already. 

 

“’Night,” Michael echoed, but he stayed awake well into the night, staring into the starry sky and listening to Gavin snoring beside him.


	3. speaking in tongues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Help! I haven’t written so many ridiculous badfic clichés into one fic in YEARS!
> 
> Also, I feel the need to include a disclaimer for all the hot and heavy stuff in this chapter. I have not participated in a successful makeout in over six years. I forget how this shit works.
> 
> (also if michael or gavin ever see this, jesus christ I am so _so_ sorry)

_September, 1925. Brydon Fort trading post._

In two years’ time the oasis at the outskirts of Beni Suef had grown into a little trading post, with camels and everything.  And it was bustling—men in headgear in every color under the sun, and dotted among them were the plain khaki uniforms of a few French legionnaires.  There were tents and stalls and even a small group of women there, Bedouin women, selling wares.  

 

They had stopped at the trading post in search of camels—ones that fit the tricky criteria of being both cheap and good at deserts.  Michael was all up in those camels’ faces, poking and prying and making sure they weren’t about to drop dead.  There was no fuckin’ way Michael was gonna go through any stretch of the desert on foot again.

 

“Michael!   _Michael_!!”

 

Michael and Ray exchanged glances.

 

“It’s definitely your turn,” Michael said.

 

“But it’s your name he’s always screaming,” said Ray, and Michael thought that that eyebrow-waggling was really fucking unnecessary, and said so.

 

“Yeah, remind me how many minutes he had his tongue down your throat?”

 

“Oh for fuck’s sake, just buy us some fucking camels,” Michael growled, and turned to see what the hell Gavin had gotten himself into now.

 

Oh, great, he was antagonizing some Bedouin fighters.  And he had picked a group of pretty heavily armed ones, at that.  They were gathered at the edge of the desert by their camels, with rifles on their backs and frighteningly large knives tucked into their belts, and Gavin was standing right in the middle of them, all gawky and talkative and very, very unprotected.

 

Michael broke into a run.  He pushed through the riders and grabbed Gavin, and, clamping a hand firmly on Gavin’s mouth, said, “He says he’s real sorry for whatever he did and he’ll be leaving with me now, thanks!”

 

The tallest rider stepped forward, blocking his way, and Michael began to reach towards his holster.  Gavin was squirming under his arm and squawking into his hand, lips wet, which was really fucking annoying, come to think of it.  

 

“Listen,” Michael said, slowly and quietly, “I’m sure you don’t want any trouble.”

 

Just then another rider spoke, in pure American English.  “Stop teasin’ him, Haywood.  Look at him.  He’s gonna blow your head off.”

 

Shock had loosened Michael’s grip.  Gavin wriggled free and managed to gasp, “I said, Michael, they’re friends!”

 

“Friends?” said Michael incredulously, looking at just how many sharp objects were currently being pointed at his face.

 

The rider who had spoken drew back his hood, and Michael saw that it was a white guy, of all the fucking ridiculous things—dressed just like a Tawarah sheikh, and bearded like one too.  He looked pale and exhausted under all that hair, but he was grinning broadly.

 

“You tell him, lad,” he said.  He held out a hand.  “Name’s Geoff.  Gav says you saved his neck.”

 

“Quite literally,” Gavin said, beaming.

 

“Michael,” Michael said, shaking Geoff’s hand.  “Michael Jones.”

 

“We were worried when you didn’t turn up at the rendezvous point,” Geoff said to Gavin.  “Heard you had a bad time on the river.”

 

“Bloody did, didn’t we?” Gavin said.  “Bloody bandits tried to take us down!  Didn’t succeed, though. Arseholes.”

 

"Yeah, it's gettin' pretty bad, ain't it?" Geoff said.  "Can't go a mile on public transport before someone sticks a gun in your face and demands all your valuables.  Rude, I call it," he added, with a look on his face that suggested that he, at least, shook hands before committing armed robbery.  "Rude  _as dicks_."

 

“Right,” Michael said, still wary.  “So, Geoff...what are you doing here, exactly?”

 

“Came here to help our baby boy break some curses,” Geoff said, nodding at Gavin.

 

“I sent ’em a telegram,” Gavin said.  “While you were havin’ a kip the other day.  These are the Hunters, Michael—they go after treasure, in a big way.”

 

“Never heard of ’em,” Michael drawled.

 

Geoff laughed.  “Come on, asshole, no need to be so defensive.  The more the merrier, right?”

 

“Strength in numbers,” said the rider called Haywood.

 

“Strength in firearms,” said another rider, which elicited a ripple of laughter.  Michael did a double-take, because the voice issuing from behind the cloth was definitely a woman’s.  

 

“That’s Griffon,” Gavin said, excitedly, and then, by way of shitty explanation, “She’s top!”

 

“Ma’am,” Michael said, nodding.  He looked at each of the riders in turn—all of them looked big, tough, capable.  Radiating confidence and cool composure, even in this heat.  They were certainly armed to the teeth.  “And in this telegram he sent you, did Gavin happen to tell you what’s out there?  What’s waiting for us below the sand?”

 

“He may have mentioned something about it, yeah,” Geoff said.  “Primordial evil, pure evil, massive amounts of buried evil, that kind of thing.  He also mentioned a shit-ton of gold.”

 

Gavin’s mouth turned up in a crooked little smile.  “I know what you like, Geoff,” he said.

 

“We meet again—oh!” came a voice from just behind them, and Michael turned to find a woman standing there with several packets held under her arm, in dusty men’s work trousers and a white shirt, auburn hair bound up in a ponytail—all in all as unexpected a sight in the desert as a rainbow.  “So you found him after all.”

 

She noticed Michael and Gavin gawping, and shook their hands one after another, saying, “Lindsay Tuggey.  I’m the expert.  Well, research librarian at the Theban Institute of Ancient Artifacts, actually, but I’m still pretty boss.”

 

Geoff was nodding.  Griffon said, “Miss Tuggey here is an expert on ancient Egyptian curses, and how to break them.”

 

“In theory,” Lindsay said.  “Never put to practice.  Anyway, it’s good to meet you both.  Heard you blew up a riverboat.”

 

“Might have,” Gavin said, as Michael said, “What the fuck?  No, we didn’t.”

 

Lindsay laughed.  “Better get your stories straight.  That’s a nasty wound you’ve got there, Mister Jones.”

 

“Call me Michael,” Michael said.  “My old man’s Mister Jones, and he’s old as fuck.”

 

“Can you fight, then, Tuggey?” said Gavin suddenly.

 

Lindsay looked at him, confused—and Michael did too, because he hadn’t heard Gavin sound like that before.  Gavin was scowling, the little prick.  He went on:  “Because there’s something out there, Miss Tuggey.  It’s big and evil and it’s not gonna take any prisoners.”

 

“I’m a decent shot,” Lindsay said.  “My pa had me shooting rattlesnakes before I was in long skirts.  So, yes, Mister Free, I can hold my own, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

 

“What the _hell_ , Gavin,” Michael said.  “ _You’re_ the one we have to worry about.  You’re the only person I know who could manage to drown himself in a glass of water.”

 

Geoff roared with laughter and shook Michael’s hand again.  “You tell him, bud.  Stay outta our way, yeah, Gavvers?  Grif and I’ll take care of you.”

 

“I’m just saying I have some concerns, Michael!” Gavin said, indignant.  “This is a dangerous expedition!  We can’t just go takin’ everyone we meet, qualified archaeologists or n—”

 

Michal shouted him down.  “Everyone we meet?  And who the fuck are you, exactly?  Can _you_ fight?  I don’t fuckin’ think so.  You moron, you’d be dead ten times over already if it weren’t for me and Ray.  Jesus.”

 

That shut Gavin right up.

  
  


It shut him up for so long that Michael got worried, but over the next three days, every time he tried to say something to Gavin, Gavin just urged his camel on or said something to Geoff or Griffon, and pretty much turned up his massive nose at any attempts Michael made at some kind of reconciliation.  Asshole.

 

He met the other riders—Haywood and Patillo, from Georgia and Texas, respectively, though they, like Geoff and Griffon, had spent a number of the years on the lam, and even more time just hanging out in Mexico.  That was all the information Michael managed to get out of them; they weren’t the most talkative bunch and after a while he let them go on ahead.

 

It was fun talking to Lindsay, though.  She knew so much about Egyptian myths, and she gloried in the ridiculous ones and knew how to tell a damn good story, too.  They spent at least an hour talking about Hathor, who was a goddess of love and joy but also of cows—you know, cows, the most romantic of animals.  Ancient Egyptians were weird as shit.

 

“Excited, bro?” Ray said, pulling his camel up beside them.  “It’ll all be over soon.  The dreams, everything.  We can go home—for good.”

 

“I guess,” Michael said.  “Is that what you wanna do?  When this is over?”

 

Ray shrugged.  “Yeah, I think so.  Tiff and me, we got a trip planned.  You’re not invited.”

 

Michael had to smile at that.  “Whatever, asshole, I’ll just keep your mama company while you’re gone.”

 

Ray choked, then laughed.  “Please don’t fuck her.”

 

“You fucker, you think I’d fuck your mama?  She’s like a mother to me.”

 

“All the more reason to worry.  Am I right?”

 

“Jesus Christ, Ray!”  

 

 

  
  
  
 _The desert.  The never-fucking-ending desert._

They made camp early, among a cluster of squat, dark rock formations that rose ten, twelve feet into the air like the fingers of a buried giant, trying to claw free of its sandy tomb.  The camels folded their legs beneath them and sank down gracefully, chewing and making those funny, grumbling camel noises; Michael gave his own camel a pat before he dismounted, and the damn thing nosed his hand, like all of a sudden they were gonna be pals.  Michael would be lying if he said his heart hadn’t melted just the tiniest bit.  He hoped to fuck this camel would survive the trip.  For that matter, he hoped to fuck that he would survive the trip.  It was another three days’ trek deep into the Eastern Desert and the sun was merciless.

 

Dinner was some kind of jerky, and American hard bread that they dunked in black coffee boiled with enough sugar to rot everyone’s teeth.  Geoff and the rest of the Hunters had opened up their packs and were putting up a tent now, of all things.  Michael decided to set up his own bedroll a short distance away—it wasn’t that he didn’t trust them, exactly, but—well, okay, he didn’t trust them.  Gavin clearly did, but what the fuck did Gavin know?  Geoff had said himself that he was just in it for the treasure, and here Michael was with a giant golden disc hanging around his neck.  He was just gonna play it safe for now, keep a revolver under his pillow, that kind of thing.  

 

It was gonna be another cold night, but this time he had blankets, and the company wasn’t too shabby, either.  He looked over to where Lindsay was sitting and chatting with Griffon and Ray, and got to his feet.  Maybe he could get her to tell another story about growing up in Texas.

  


It was well after dark when Gavin came slinking over to Michael and Ray’s fire.  Ray had passed out on the ground, and Lindsay had said goodnight and gone to her tent, muttering something about revisiting a chapter on the curse of Sety I, because it was a good bedtime story or some shit.  The guy had sicked a swarm of flesh-eating scarabs on the idiot who decided to disturb his tomb.  Yeah...real soothing.  Better than a lullaby.

 

Gavin cleared his throat awkwardly.  Michael was tempted to ignore him, but decided he liked the moral high ground.  Very clean and airy up there, it was.

 

“What do you want, Gav?” he said.

 

“Er, I brought bevs,” Gav said, lifting up the bottle he was holding.  “Sorry I was bein’ such a mingy spaff earlier.  Friends?”

 

Michael eyed the bottle—single malt Scotch whiskey.

 

“Yeah, whatever, friends,” he said.  “Siddown, man.”  

 

Gavin took a swig and passed him the bottle, coughing a bit.  “Geoff never goes anywhere without his supply.”

 

“So I see,” Michael said, impressed.  He tried not to wheeze as it went down and failed.  “Don’t tell me _this_ is what he has in that little hip flask of his?   _Je_ sus.”

 

“So, uh,” Gavin said.  “Right.  Well.”

 

“So,” Michael said.  “Geoff and Griffon, huh?”

 

“Yup,” Gavin said.  He added, “They’re married, y’know.  So you don’t have to keep lookin’ over at their tent all askance and whatnot.”

 

“I can’t understand a fucking word you’re saying,” Michael said.  “And I’m not looking _askance_ at anything.”

 

“I mean, there ain’t nothin’ improper about it, that’s what I’m saying, Michael!  It’s funny, though, ’cos they met on a job and they hadn’t even seen each other before, just a telegram with coordinates, and Geoff says he barely got them out of there alive, he was too busy lookin’ at Griffon and trippin’ over his own feet.  Lucky for him Griffon kept her head or none of us would be here now.  She really is top, Griffon is.”

 

“Yeah, tippity top,” Michael said.  Damn, that Scotch was going to his head a lot faster than he had planned.  “So how’d you meet ’em?”

 

“Kinda how I met you, actually,” Gavin said.

 

“What, in jail, with a rope around your neck, for blowin’ a guy in an alley?”

 

“Well, all right, not like that!” Gavin said, waving the bottle around.  “More like, we kinda fell in together.”

 

“Fell in what?”

 

“What d’you m—oh, shut up, stop takin’ the piss.  They were doin’ a job in Luxor and they didn’t know what it was they had st—er, _acquired_ , and I told ’em I could read it—”

 

“Could you, though?”

 

“Well, yeah, ’course I could!  I can read Hieratic, can’t I?  And all the other dead languages, and all the hieroglyphs with the funny animals.  ’S why I don’t have a bloody clue why they invited that Tuggey bird along—”

 

“Give it a rest, you little shithead,” Michael said.  “Lindsay’s fine.  She’s great, in fact.  The more the merrier, like Geoff said.”

 

“Sorry,” Gavin said, quietly.  “You’re right.  It’s just—well—I don’t want you to think I’m _useless_ , Michael.”

 

“You’re not useless, idiot.  You keep the jackal man away.”  Fucking fucksticks, why did he think it was a good idea to say that?

 

It worked, though.  Gavin’s eyes crinkled up and he looked really pleased with himself.  “Oh,” he said.  “Yeah—yeah, I guess I do, don’t I?”

 

Michael could see he was giving the little fucker the wrong idea.  “Listen, Gavin, it’s getting late, and I don’t think—”

 

Gavin caught him by the arm.

 

“Teach me how to fight, Michael,” he said.

 

“Are you fucking serious?” Michael said.  “Go to sleep, idiot.  We have a long week ahead of us.”

 

“Teach me,” Gavin insisted.  “I don’t want to be a nuisance anymore, Michael.”

 

“You’re being one hell of a nuisance right now,” Michael grumbled.

 

“I mean, I don’t want to be a burden to you,” Gavin said.  “I want to be able to hold my own in a fight, too.”

 

“You’re not gonna pick it all up in one night, you moron.”

 

“That doesn’t matter,” Gavin insisted.  “Just teach me the basics.  We can go from there.”

 

Michael took another gulp of Geoffrey Ramsey’s fine, fine supply.  “Fine.  Fine!  Just the basics, and then you are going the fuck to sleep, or I’m going to beat you to death with a rock.”

  
  


_Tooooooo MANY drinksh laaater, fuuuck, that’s a lotta stars up there..._

“Pay...pay _attention_ , Gavin.  This is how you th—thr— _throw_ , god damn it—throw a punch.”

 

“I’m doing it!  I’m doing it, Michael!”

 

“No, asshole...you gotta make a fist first.  Thumb outside...llllike this—whoa, hey!”

 

Gavin lunged, hands flailing, and missed spectacularly.  Michael caught him under the arms and hoisted him upright, and for a moment they both stood there swaying, smiling at each other like idiots.  Gavin was giggling and bouncing on his heels.  

 

Michael laughed.  “That’s the opposite of a good punch, numbnuts.  Here, lemme show youuu...”

 

“Wh—aaaaah, Michael!  Oof!”

 

They rolled twice and came to a stop.  “Jusssst kidding,” Michael said.  “Boom!  That’s a tackle, bitch!”

 

“Michael!” Gavin yelped.  Little bastard was trying to squirm free.  Well, Michael wasn’t gonna let him.  “Michael, that’s not fair, you cheeky muppet, I wasn’t ready—”

 

“Gonna put you in a headlock,” Michael mumbled.  It occurred to him that Gavin probably couldn’t hear him, since he was mouthing his words into Gavin’s skin.  “Gonna—”

 

“Michael, oh, Michael,” Gavin was choking with laughter, and his stupid eyes were so bright and his stupid face was creased up with happiness and Michael just—

 

Michael just—

 

Gavin put his hand on Michael’s face, tentative, and Michael didn’t swat him away.  Gavin stroked his cheek and Michael just looked at him, looked into his stupid green eyes.  Gavin smiled at him, soft and happy, and Michael sucked in a sharp breath, tasted booze and sweat in the air between them—and he closed his eyes, dizzy, and that was it, that was that—Gavin was kissing him.

 

His ears were ringing; his face and neck felt hot, and Gavin’s mouth was perfect.  Gavin’s hands were squeezing his shoulders, sliding up and down his arms and chest.  Michael didn’t let him come up for air; he fisted both hands in Gavin’s shirt and dragged him closer.

 

“Oh, Michael,” Gavin said.  “My little Michael, I—”

 

“Less talking,” Michael grunted.  He slid down and started sucking at Gavin’s ear, tasting salt, and Gavin sort of...convulsed...and groaned, sounding shocked at himself.  He started struggling upright, and Michael was having none of that.  “Sit,” Michael said, giving him a nip.  “Sit, stay, Gavvy.”

 

“Michael, I— _oh_ —I _really_ like you, Michael—”

 

“Good,” Michael said.  “I’m gonna kiss you now.”

 

“Right.  Well, top,” Gavin gasped.  “Cheers.”

 

Gavin’s tongue couldn’t manage the English language at all, but it was clear to Michael now that its talents lay elsewhere.  Fuck the final resting place of Genghis Khan and ancient spice routes in Melaka—Michael was pretty sure this was the best discovery he had made in his life.  He didn’t ever want to stop kissing Gavin, didn’t ever want to stop biting at Gavin’s lower lip and feeling Gavin shiver under his hands.  Just this and Gavin’s hands sliding hot against his ribs, and Gavin’s chest heaving and Gavin’s breath coming out in shaky gasps because of Michael, because Michael was making him feel good—yes, please.

 

Through the haze of alcohol and intense, ridiculous pleasure it occurred to Michael that maybe this wasn’t such a great idea, that maybe Michael didn’t know what he was getting into, and maybe Gavin didn’t either.  He pushed that thought aside impatiently.  He’d deal with it in the morning.

 

Then Ray made a noise in his sleep next to them and rolled over, and they both froze, terrified, and looked at each other and started giggling like idiots.

 

“Sleep now, yeah?” Gavin said, easy, and the firelight caught the sheen of saliva on well-kissed lips.  “C’mere.”

 

He opened his arms and Michael, shrugging to himself, crawled into them, and tugged the blankets up, and they lay there intertwined, kissing lazily until they fell asleep.

  
  


 

 

Michael woke up cold.  It was still dark, though the edges of the wide desert world were beginning to be tinged with softer blues and grays.  

 

The Hunters’ campfire was going strong again, and one of them—Patillo, maybe—was leaning over a pot, stirring.

 

He groaned and rubbed at his eyes.  Geoff’s whiskey was lethal.

 

“’Morning,” Griffon said, as Michael picked his way toward the fire.  She was wrapped in a blanket, blonde hair mussed, and drinking something steaming out of a tin cup.  “Coffee, Michael?”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” Michael said.  “Good morning.”

 

Smiling, Griffon passed him a cup.  

 

“Good sleep?” she asked, and memory smashed back into Michael’s skull like a ton of bricks.

 

“Yeah, not bad,” he answered, looking around for Gavin, and not seeing him anywhere.  Shit.

 

Griffon followed his eyes.  “Still asleep, poor boy,” she said.  “I guess he had a late night.”

 

Michael choked a little on his next sip of coffee.  “Er.”

 

“We practically raised him, Geoff and me,” she said, unexpectedly.  “He was, what, fourteen, when we found him?  Well, when he found us.  He was like our first child,” she said, grinning.  “Even though we weren’t more than kids ourselves.  On the run all the time.  I didn’t get a chance to thank you personally, Michael Jones, so let me say it now.  Thanks for getting him back to us in one piece.”

 

 _You wouldn’t be thanking me if you knew what your baby boy and I got up to last night_ , thought Michael uneasily.  Aloud, he said, “Aw, hell, don’t worry about it, Mrs. Ramsey.”

 

“Griffon.”  She looked distant.  “This wouldn’t have happened if he’d stayed in Texas with us,” she said.  “Geoff and I would have looked after him, kept him out of trouble.  Nice boys in Texas, too.”

 

“ _Tex_ —”  It was impossible, it was im-fucking-possible to imagine Gavin in Texas, surrounded by ranch hands and longhorns.  “What happened?  Why’d he leave?”

 

“Oh, well, he does have a real family, you know,” Griffon said airily.  “Back in England.  Mother, father, brothers, et cetera.  And he has a, um, a _friend_ waiting for him over there, too.”  She winked.  “He hasn’t said anything about it to you?”

 

Michael shook his head.  

 

“Well, then I’d better not say either.  Anyway, he’s looking well.  Healthy, and all that.”

 

“A friend, huh,” Michael said.  He tried to ignore the way his heart dropped in his chest.

 

“Hmm?” Griffon tilted her head.

 

He finished off his coffee.  “Nothing.  Just thinking out loud.  Thanks for the coffee, Mrs—uh—Griffon.”

  
  


 

_Desert.  Desert.  Desert all the time._

“Hey, uh, Ray.  Last night, did you—”

 

Ray turned slightly in his saddle.  “Hear you kissing your boyfriend like you were trying to wake him up from a hundred year nap?  That?  Yeah, nope.  Nada.  Didn’t hear a thing.”

 

“Jesus Christ, Ray.”  Michael put his face in his hands, accidentally yanking the reins.  His camel came to an abrupt halt and nearly pitched him forward over its neck.  

 

Ray stopped too, waving Geoff and the rest onward.  “Listen, bro, I’m fine with it,” he said.  “Kinda had that feeling about you two, anyway.”

 

“Had _what_ feeling?  About _what_?” Michael exclaimed.  “Goddammit, we were _drunk_ , Ray!”

 

“Yeah, and?”  Ray looked at him calmly.  “You’re not drunk now, buddy.   _In vino veritas_ , as the great man said.”

 

“What man?”

 

“Uh, I don’t know, Caesar?  One of them.  Ask Lindsay.  She’ll know.”

 

“Fuck, Ray—”

 

“No thanks—”

 

“—This is the first time—I mean, he’s the first—I—shit, I don’t know what I’m doing.  I probably already fucked up.”

 

“Probably,” Ray said.

 

“Thanks.  You’re a real comfort.”

 

“I try my best.  Look, just talk to him.  Kiss him, whatever.  All I ask is that you do it a little farther away from my poor, defenseless, unconscious face next time.  All right?”

 

 

 

Michael rode up beside Gavin, and stayed there for the rest of the day’s journey, but Gavin wouldn’t talk to him—wouldn’t even look at him.  It irritated him.  Hell, it pissed him the hell off.

 

Finally, as night fell and they set up camp again, Michael managed to corner him and ask what the fuck he thought he was doing.

 

Gavin could barely meet his eyes.  He swayed on his feet and then, haltingly, said to his own hands:

 

“I—I don’t know what to say, it’s—I’m sorry about last night, Michael.  We had too much to drink, and things got out of hand, and I did something that you didn’t want—”

 

“Whoa, Gav.  That’s my line.” Michael reached for him, but he shied away.

 

“—and we shouldn’t do it again.  That’s what I think.  It was a mistake, Michael.  I’m sorry.”

 

“Hey, hang on a minute, Gavin!  I’m fine.  It was fine.  It was great.  We can absolutely do it again.”

 

“You don’t know what you’re damn doin’!” Gavin said, flaring up.  “I’m trying to keep you from makin’ another stupid mistake!”

 

“Is this because of your friend?” Michael shot back, and it came out sounding nastier than he had intended.  Hurt and confusion were filling him, the memory of Gavin’s sleepy, deliriously happy smile and the taste of his lips making his chest tight, and he did what he always did in these situations:  get mad—get really fucking angry.  “Your _friend_ back in England?  Is that what it is?  You were missing him and looking for some kind of handy substitute?  Is that what you’re saying?”

 

“Wh—” Gavin sounded winded, like Michael had just punched him in the stomach.  “How’d you know about—”  He choked.  “Wait, no.  No, Michael, it’s not like that.  That’s not what I’m saying _at all_!  There's no one—no one I—”

 

“Griffon told me.  It’s no use lying,” said Michael.  His chest ached.  Gavin just stared at him, white-faced and wide-eyed, looking so goddamn guilty it hurt to see him.

 

“Hey.”  It was Geoff, with Griffon and Ray in tow.  “We havin’ a problem here?”

 

“No,” Michael said.  “Just having a talk.  I think we’re done here, right, Gavin?”

 

“Yeah,” Gavin said.  Michael tried not to hear how badly his voice was shaking.  “S-second watch is mine, yeah, R-Ray?”  He snatched the lamp away from Ray, turned, and pretty much ran for it.

  


 

 

_Midnight._

Michael didn’t even bother trying to go back to sleep.  He stayed awake and stared out into the desert, at the lonely light flickering at the edge of the camp, moving back and forth, back and forth.  It was freezing—forty degrees Fahrenheit at most.

 

“Fuck,” he said, and got up.  

  
  


Gavin jumped, like, twenty feet into the air when Michael walked up behind him.  

 

“Your shift’s not for another hour!  I nearly kakked my pants, ya dope!” he said, and then he realized it wasn’t Geoff and got all quiet and Michael felt like socking him in the jaw.

 

He held out the blanket instead.  “It’s kinda chilly.  You ran off without taking anything.”

 

Gavin still wasn’t looking at him.  “Yeah.  Thanks.”

 

“Gavin—”

 

“Go get some sleep, Michael.  We’re almost at the city.  You’ll need your rest.”

 

“Like I could fall asleep anyway,” Michael said bitterly.  “All right.  Okay.  I’m sorry, by the way.  If that’s worth anything.  I clearly misunderstood.”

 

Gavin sounded like he was about to smile.  Or cry.  Michael couldn’t tell.  “Yeah, you did.”

 

“Okay.  And you don’t have to worry, all right?  Just—you know.  Be happy.  With him.  Go back to England when this is over, and stay out of trouble.  All right?”

 

Gavin made a noise like he was in pain.  “I—you—all right.  I appreciate it.  Good night, Michael.”

 

“’Night.”

 

 

  
  
  
  
The next day, the city found them.  


	4. AAAAAAAAAAARGH

_Dawn. Desert. Creepy sand.  Same old._

“According to my research,” Lindsay said, flapping one of her dusty books around and nearly taking out Michael’s left eye, “the place you’ve described to me sounds like it could be the site of the lost city of Uten Sakhal.  Ptolemaic sources describe the city as being laid to waste by shifting sands in the time of Queen Berenike I.  ‘A judgment upon the folly of woman,’ ” she quoted, snorting.  “Assholes.  More likely the oasis dried up, and people moved on.”

 

“Uten _Sakhal_?” Gavin said.  “But that’s—you’re not gonna like this, Michael.”

 

“Lay it on me,” Michael said.

 

“It went by other names, in other times,” Lindsay said.  “City of the black walls.  City of the dead—resting place of pharaohs.  But in its oldest and purest form, it is simply the city of the jackal.  Home of the god Anubis—Anubis, Anapa, guardian of the way beyond the gates, Guardian of the Scales.  The Embalmer.”

 

At that, a keening wind swooped low across the sand.  A shiver ran through the group.

 

“Ooh, creepy,” Geoff said happily.  “And the treasure?  Is one of the other names City of Stupidly Large Amounts of Treasure?”

 

Lindsay shrugged.  “Well, like I said, tombs of pharaohs.”

 

“Sweet.  Let’s find this city of embalmed dogs or jackals or whatever.”

 

“Uh, guys?” Ray said.  “We got problems.”

 

They followed his pointing finger, to where huge clouds of dust were rising in the distance, growing bigger...and bigger...and closer.

 

“Oh, _shit_ ,” Ryan said.  

 

“We can outrun it!” Geoff said.  “Come on, guys!”

 

“Get on your camels,” Griffon shouted.  “Goggles!  Get up!  Go, go, go!  Ride!”

 

“Michael, what—”  Gavin was tugging at him.  “You heard the boss.  Get a move on, man!   _Michael_!”

 

Michael barely felt him, barely heard him.  The sky had gone dark through the runny green glass of his goggles.  “The jackal man,” Michael said, hoarse.  “It’s too late.”

 

Griffon screamed, “ _Get down_!”

 

But before anyone could react, the ground all around them rippled, snakelike, and then it blew apart, raking their faces with sand and taking part of the world with it.

  
  
  
  
 _Afternoon.  Desert.  Murderous sand.  God damn it._

It was bad enough that a fucking pharaonic ninja had stuck his hook in Michael’s shoulder, but now Michael had to contend with fucking _sand-geysers_ —of all the stupid supernatural bullshit.  He could hear the shouts of the Hunters filtering around him:  odd snatches of human noise sifting through the howling of the wind and the giant fucking sand explosions and the constant, horrible braying of panicked camels.  He caught a glimpse of Lindsay, and she shouted something at him—and spun away into the haze and vanished.  There was no point trying to find the others; he could barely see his hands in front of him, though he could feel them, clenched around the reins so tightly that his palms were beginning to go numb.  His camel plodded on and he tried to follow it.  It probably knew what was what, and where to go, and all that good desert-survival stuff.

 

The sky was obliterated; dark with whirling sand, and even the sounds of the Hunters were growing fainter, as though the storm had caught them, swept them up in its grasp, and spirited them away.  Michael yelled once for Ray, then drew his blanket up over his nose and mouth and ears and doubled himself over beside his camel, ignoring the way it bellowed and heaved.  The only thought in his mind now was that they were going to be buried alive—and what a goddamned pity it was that he and Ray had saved Gavin from the noose only to suffocate him in the boiling sand of the desert.

 

Under the constant roaring of the sand he could hear hissing, the susurrus of hundreds of hidden tongues, beckoning to him or begging him to go, to escape while he still could.  His camel moaned and choked and stumbled and then it was gone, just fucking gone, and he was holding the reins in his hand and there was no fucking camel beside him.  Jesus Christ.  Jesus Christ.  Jesus fucking Christ.

 

The whispering was in his ears now; it was all he could hear.  The wind tore at his chest.

 

A shadow reared up in front of him.  Michael yelled and went for his guns—the storm snapped up his blanket and blasted it into outer fucking space—and then Gavin was in front of him, grabbing hold of his arms and bundling Michael under his own blanket.

 

“Ya dope!”  Or at least that was what Michael thought he said.

 

“Gavin—Gavin, _Jesus_ —”

 

“Let’s go!” Gavin yelled.

 

“What the fuck, do you even know where you’re going, asshole?!”

 

“Just trust me, Michael!  This way!”

 

It felt like they were walking forever, just staggering on, nearly crawling, until suddenly hands shot through the storm and grabbed at them, at their clothing, and the next thing Michael knew the sun was hot on his neck and he was gasping on his hands and knees in beautifully clear air.

 

Gavin flopped down beside him, struggling to breath in between gales of laughter.

 

“Well, that was just brilliant,” he gasped.

 

Michael rolled over onto his back, groaning.  “Jesus fuck, I thought I was done for,” he said.

 

“You and me both, buddy,” said Ray, grinning down at him.  “Nicely done, Gav.”

 

“Like a bloody homin’ pigeon, ain’t I?” Gavin said proudly.  “Always know where my Michael is.”

 

“How the fuck did you guys get out?” Michael asked.  "Holy shit, I couldn't see a damned thing in there."  

 

“Lindsay led the way,” Geoff said.  “Also, we held hands.”

 

“Yeah, and you just ran off into the sand by yourself, didn’t you, ya doughnut?” Gavin said cheerfully.

 

Michael sat up.  “Excuse me, what did you just call me?  Doughnut?”  

 

“Well, yeah,” Gavin said.  “’S what you are, innit, Michael.”

 

There came a noise of crunching, sifting sand, and Lindsay appeared over them.  “Hey, I know you two lovebirds are busy gazing into each other’s eyes and marveling at the miracle of creation and all that,” she said, “but have you maybe had a chance to, oh, I don’t know...look around?”

 

Michael choked.  “Wha—”

 

Gavin fell backwards, crowing with laughter, and the Hunters and even Ray chimed in, Geoff’s laughter floating high and borderline maniacal over all the rest.  Listening to him, Michael had to smile.

 

Then he saw where they were gathered.

  
  
  


It was the city of black walls, all right.  Michael could absolutely see where that came from.  

 

The storm had uncovered most of the city.  It was definitely small by modern standards, but still imposing, especially in the vast emptiness of the desert.  Lindsay had told him that ancient Egyptian houses were usually made of mud-brick or sandstone, and only important buildings were painted—but it looked like all the buildings here had been pretty damn important, because they were all fucking painted.  And yes, they were painted black—so black they gleamed fuckin’ blue where the sun hit them, and looked more like chunks of obsidian sitting out in the sun than buildings made of mud.  

 

He was sure the statue of the jackal man was there somewhere among the squat black shapes, but he wasn’t about to go looking for it.  And he had a bad feeling—a bad but  _very fucking sure_ feeling—that the jackal man would find him.

 

Lindsay was way ahead of them, calling out bits of unnecessarily grisly history.  “And this must be where they made some of the mummies—you know they stick a metal thing up your nose and scramble your brains around and drag ’em right back out again?  And all your organs too!  They keep those in jars!  And this looks like an embalming house.  Did you know highborn ladies had their boobs stuffed with wax and sawdust for eternal perkiness?  Then they marinate you in special salt for seventy days until you’re all nice and dehydrated!  Oh, oh!  And this is probably where they stationed guards to attack anything that came out of the tombs!  Hell, I bet Sety II’s tomb is still here.  And Amenhotep I.  He was said to be the richest pharaoh in all of Egypt—”  

 

“Now we’re talking,” Griffon said.  Geoff just cackled.

 

Michael was glad they were excited.  He couldn’t say the same for himself, though; it felt like a swarm of Sety II’s terrifying flesh-eating scarabs had crawled into his heart and guts and was in there gnawing away.

 

“Geoff, don’t let your guys wander off by themselves,” he said, keeping an eye on Lindsay and Griffon as they were knelt in the sand, examining the foundations of one of these houses of horror.  

 

Geoff rolled his eyes.  “Come on.  I’m a big boy.  Carry my own rifle and everything.  ’Sides, there doesn’t seem to be a living thing around here.”

 

“That’s what I’m worried about,” Michael said.  “You heard the stories Lindsay was telling us.”

 

“Well, yeah, but that’s all they are—stories,” Geoff said.  “Look—you’re a decent fella, Michael, I don’t deny that, but the desert is a freakish place.  It gets to you.  Gets in your head.  I’m not saying you were seein’ things the last time you were out here, but—well—the mind makes its own monsters.  And don’t try to tell me Gavin is a reliable source, because I’ve known that adorable little bastard since he was fifteen and he is full of tales taller and thinner than he is.  I’m surprised his nose ain’t bigger than it is.”

 

Michael clenched his fists.  “Listen, I know what I saw.  But fine.  You don’t wanna believe me, fine.  But just think of all the stupid fuckers who die trying to get into tombs.  Think on it, okay?  This is a city of the dead; it’s probably booby-trapped to blow us to kingdom come—so just get everyone to stay close, all right?  You brought all this ammunition; this isn’t a goddamn trip to the seaside, all right?”

 

“Fair enough.”  Geoff crossed his arms and raised his voice.  He had a funny, warbling sound when he yelled but still managed to sound authoritative as fuck.  Maybe that was why big guys like Jack and Ryan followed him into the desert—why Griffon sometimes just looked over at him and _grinned_.  “Hey!  Gents!  My lady!  Other lady!  Lads!  No wandering off!  Eyes peeled.  You got me?”

 

They fell in with almost military discipline, covering the sand in a loose phalanx.  Jack and Ryan walked with their rifles held loosely in their hands.

 

“How much more of this place d’you think is buried, eh, bro?” Ray asked.

 

“God knows,” Michael said.  “Honestly, Ray, I don’t really want to find out.  Let’s find the evil, exterminate the evil, and get the fuck out, okay?”

 

“Yeah, sounds good.”

 

“Told ya I’d get ya here,” Gavin said, hopping up beside them, and Michael didn’t even have to look at him to know he was smiling; he could fucking hear it in his voice.  “I’m the best map—ooh yes I am.”

 

“Fuck you, we damn near never got near the place,” Michael said, but his heart wasn’t in it, and he clapped Gavin on the back and then gave his shoulder bones a little squeeze, too, because so what if Gavin had a fella waiting for him?  He and Gavin were here now and they were alive and they might not be tomorrow.  Gavin looked at him and smiled so bright, and laughed, and Michael made up his mind.

  
  
  


They made camp early to discuss their plans.  The Hunters, guided by Lindsay, were hard at work drawing up a grid of the city, marking the places they thought most likely to hold treasure.  Michael offered one or two suggestions, but it was clear that Geoff wasn’t really listening—didn’t believe him when he told them to stay away from any statues of Anubis.  Even Gavin's eyes were shining, full of visions of gold and glory.  

 

After a while Michael just shrugged and walked away to set up his own camp with Ray, farther away from the city.  They had some trouble getting a fire started—then finally, more hard tack and boiled water for supper, and a handful of dried dates, and he and Ray sang a stupid song and the Hunters chimed way too merrily from their end of the city, and then Ray said goodnight and Michael sat with his chin in his hands and thought that maybe he should have made a will before they started out on this godforsaken expedition.  

 

As the moon rose, Michael made his way over to the Hunters’ camp, feeling the shiver working its way down his spine as he came closer to the city.  Jack was taking first watch, and all the other Hunters—Lindsay included—were dead to the world, sprawled in a snoring circle around the campfire.  They hadn’t put their makeshift map away, and he saw that there was an entire region of the city circled again and again in black ink.  Someone had drawn a massive arrow and written _TREASURE, BITCHES!_ beside it.   _TREASURE!!_

 

There were bottles everywhere.  Jesus Christ.

 

Gavin was cradling a bottle that wasn’t quite empty yet, crooning at it like it was a baby or something.  He looked up as Michael stepped closer and grinned, wide and happy.  

 

“Oh, hullo, my little Michael,” he said.  He wasn’t exactly slurring, but he was definitely not sober.  Michael scowled.  He had been hoping to get Gavin alone so they could talk things out.  Talking things out was good.  Chances of sincere and heartfelt conversation with Gavin were always slim, but now they were basically zero.

 

“C’mere, then.  Have a drink, love,” Gavin said, and when Michael sat down he wrapped his arms around him and basically crawled into his lap.

 

Right.  Okay.  Twitching, Michael accepted the bottle from Gavin—Scotch again.

 

Gavin was just sitting there, giggling, kind of squirming.  Jesus God.

 

He twirled the bottle in a slow circle and heard the liquid sloshing around.  There wasn’t much left of it.  “How much have you had?  Jesus Christ, did you drink all of this?”

 

“Maaaaaaybe,” Gavin said.  “Might’ve, yeah.  Uh huh.”

 

“You aren’t allowed to do this,” Michael said, as Gavin smiled at him and started kissing up his neck.  “You aren’t allowed to get drunk and do this to me and change your mind in the morning, Jesus Christ Gavin stop it!”

 

He grabbed Gavin and held him at arm’s length.  

 

“Let’s not,” he said.  “You don’t know what you’re doing.  This really isn’t how I want things to go, Gavvers.”

 

“I just get so damn nervous around you, Michael!” Gavin exclaimed.  “Just wanna—wanna kiss you all the time.  But you—you— _you_ —”  He tried to kiss Michael again and Michael choked and turned away.

 

“Michael, please!” Gavin said, mouthing against his jaw.  “Please let me.”

 

“Oh my god, oh Jesus, I hate you,” Michael said.

 

“No, you doooon’t,” Gavin said.  “You’re my little boy.  You’re my little Michael.  Gonna kiss you—gonna kiss you right— _right_ now,” he said, and he pressed his hands into Michael’s shoulders and Michael could feel his breath warm and damp on his lips and smell the alcohol and then Gavin’s eyes closed and stayed closed and holy fucking shit, was he asleep?  He was asleep.

 

“Thank fucking Christ,” Michael said.  “Gavin, you fucking idiot.”  He arranged Gavin on his side and pulled a blanket up over him, and over every single one of Geoff’s fucking Hunters, the drunken morons.  At least Lindsay had had the presence of mind to tuck herself in.

 

Then he got up and stomped back to his own campfire at the edge of the desert, to where Ray was very definitely not dozing anymore.  In fact he was sitting up and wearing that stupid shit-eating grin on his face.  

 

“Have fun?” he said.

 

Michael held up a hand.  “No.  Shut up.  Don’t fucking say anything.  I fucking hate Scotch.”

 

“Hey, me too, buddy, me too,” Ray said.

 

“I’m going to sleep.  Fuck Gavin.”

 

“I don’t want to,” Ray said, but really quietly, because he could probably see the steam coming outta Michael’s ears.

 

“Fuck you, Ray.  You goddamn asshole, this isn't fucking funny.  Fuck.”  Michael pulled his jacket over his head and closed his eyes.  And just like that he was drifting off.

  
  
  


He didn’t stay asleep long.  In fact, no one did, because Michael woke them up with his screaming.

 

“What—what— _what is it_ , what the fuck is it?” Geoff yelled, exasperated, after spinning around in a circle pointing his gun at anything he thought he saw moving—one flickering shadow after another.  “Jesus H. Christ, Michael, what the fuck is it?”

 

It took Michael a minute to realize he could still talk, that the jackal man hadn’t in fact reached into his mouth and torn out his tongue.

 

“Sorry—sorry,” he gasped.  “False alarm.  Sorry.”

 

Geoff swore and threw his goddamn artillery on the sand, one gun after another.  And then a few knives too.  The rest of the Hunters followed suit after a tense pause.  “False fucking alarm—Jesus wept, I thought you were getting fucking ripped to pieces.  You asshole.”

 

It was still dark—darker now, since their fires had burned to ashes.

 

Geoff had thrown himself down on the sand now too, among his scattered weaponry.  Griffon stretched out beside him, heedless of the knives now impaling their bedroll.  “I’m goin’ back to sleep.  Jesus Christ.  My head.”

 

“Yeah,” Michael said, still hoarse.  “I—sorry.  Go back to sleep.”

 

But he stayed awake, rifle trained on the black walls of the city, finger on the trigger, until the sun rose.

  
  


Even though Michael was more prepared for any more supernatural fuckery, the city still looked scary as fuck the next morning—the more so because Michael, in a fog of sleep deprivation and frustrated anger, had a strange feeling that it was changing around him—shifting somehow.  Every time he looked things felt different.  Wrong.

 

It turned out the circled region of the map was an area of tombs—possibly the tombs of the pharaohs, but they wouldn’t know until they broke in.  It had taken almost an hour to dig through the sand into the gaping black mouth of one tomb, another to break through the wall into the tomb next door—and then they had decided to split up to cover more ground and map out the underground labyrinth.  

 

Geoff was a little slower than the rest, and still looking kind of irritated.  He was also looking extremely fucking hungover, something Michael took in with a small amount of pleasure.  Gavin was there too, with Griffon, moving slowly, looking red-eyed and dismayed and like he had retained no memory of what he had tried to do the night before.  Michael wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

 

But back to the matter at hand.

 

Gavin didn’t follow Geoff and instead came trailing after Michael.  “Hey,” he said, soft.  “Can I join your group, then, Michael?  We’re a team, yeah?”

 

“If three’s a crowd, four’s a fucking circus,” Michael said, gesturing at Lindsay and Ray, who were standing behind him.  Lindsay was looking like she was ready to go sprinting off into the dark, torch or no torch.  She had brought a full set of digging tools, complete with tiny little brushes, and not one, not two, but three shovels.  These Michael had made her hand over to him and Ray, because he was a motherfuckin’ gentleman.

 

“I’d just feel better keepin’ you in my sight, ’s all,” said Gavin.

 

“Gonna protect me, Gavvy?” Michael said, and he couldn’t quite keep the sneer out of his voice.  

 

But Gavin just folded his arms and looked obstinate.  “Geoff and Griffon can take care of themselves.  You’re the one havin’ all the nasty dreams, y’muppet.”

 

“All right, honey,” Michael said.  “Do what you want.”

 

Gavin spluttered.  “God damn it, Michael, you can’t just say things like that!”

 

“Yeah, sure,” Michael said, “whatever,” and he thrust a shovel towards Gavin, who still looked shocked and affronted and gratifyingly red in the cheeks.  “You can help dig, anyway.”

  
  
  
  


It was cold underground.  Dark too—the kind of darkness that pressed in on you, on your eyeballs, and filled your throat and lungs too if you breathed in too deep.  Michael walked ahead and Ray in back, slightly crouched because the ceilings were low.  The floor beneath them sloped gently and inexorably downward, until Michael felt like they were walking into the bowels of the earth, or some other poetic shit like that.  Ray’s mama would have known how to put it.

 

Gavin did not.  “Bloody hell, it’s darker than Satan’s arsehole in here!”

 

Lindsay snorted.  Ray said, “Whoa there.”

 

“Yes.  Thank you, Gavin,” Michael said.  

 

When they lifted their torches to see the walls, they saw black stone carved with intricate reliefs, hundreds of stacked birds and reeds and animals and men, and the kohl-lined eyes of stiff, two-dimensional figures.  More than once the image of the jackal man flickered into existence under the light of the torch, and he stretched from the packed dirt of the corridor floor all the way into the ceiling hanging heavy over them.  Lindsay said these were scenes from the Egyptian Book of the Dead—yeah, exactly, that was some terrifying shit right there—depicting the postmortem process, the mourning, the removal of your brains—the meeting of your maker, or one of your makers, at least, who happened to have the head of a jackal.  

 

“One thousand loaves of bread, one thousand jugs of beer,” Lindsay said.  “That’s a direct translation, by the way.”

 

“I’m liking the sound of that,” Ray said.  “Uh, not so much the salt bath though.  Or the, uh, the brain scrambling.”

 

“Well, you’d be dead for those parts, so it’s not like you’d notice,” Lindsay said happily.

 

The corridor was growing wider.  Michael, feeling his way along with a torch and the fingertips of his left hand, had the sensation that the ceiling had started swooping away from them too, creating a darkness that was cavernous and hollow, stretching all around them.  He stopped, signalling to the others, and raised the torch high—until his arm was extending straight up.  Ray followed suit.  They stood in a lit circle with darkness creeping toward the edges.  Strange shapes caught the light.

 

“Blimey,” Gavin breathed.

 

The room was lined with statues, twice the size of a grown man, towering into the darkness.  In their right hands they held spears.  Their left hands were held at rigid angles, fisted, on their bare chests.  Their heads—human or animal—he could not see.

 

“Hey—gimme,” Lindsay said, and plucking the torch from Michael’s grasp she walked forward, slowly and reverently.  She was murmuring something.  As Michael drew reluctantly closer he heard it was a chant.

 

“And I will slaughter the enemies of Egypt; I will smite them with my strong right arm; I will grind them to dust beneath my heel.”  

 

“Pray to me, you sons and daughters of Egypt,” Gavin read, stepping up beside them.  “Er—what’s this one, Lindsay?”

 

Lindsay paused.  Then—

 

“Death,” she said quietly.  “Death, on swift wings.”

 

There was something gleaming at Michael’s feet.  He bent down and picked it up—it was a bead or something.  A marble.  Did ancient Egyptians have marbles?

 

"Hey, Linds—"

 

“And the jaws of Ammit for the unworthy,” Gavin said.  He nudged Michael.  “That’s the croco-hippo we were tellin’ you about.  Eater of hearts and such.”

 

“Right.”  

 

“There was a name on this altar,” Lindsay said, “but it’s been chipped off—just cut right out of the stone.  Whoever it was must have been pretty unpopular.”

 

Gavin snorted.  “I’ll say.  ‘The unworthy one who lies here, may he walk in thirst and hunger in the darkness,’ ” he read.  “The unworthy one who lies here—may he suffer for all eternity.  Phew.  I’d got a step further than mere unpopularity.”

 

“Lies _here_?” Lindsay said.

 

“All right,” Gavin said, sounding snippy, “all right, so it’s a rough translation.  I’m tryin’ to get the _feeling_ of it across, Tuggey.  It’s about atmosphere, innit!”

 

“Lies _here_ —”

 

“All _right_ , you don’t have to rub it in—”

 

“Here—as in— _below_ ,” Lindsay said.  “Below!  This is it, boys—time to get digging!”

 

Michael frowned.  “Why, exactly?”

 

“Because there’s a mummy under our feet,” Lindsay exclaimed.  “A real, actual, ancient Egyptian mummy and I am sure as hell not leaving until we get a look at it.  Can you believe it?  Buried at the feet of the god!  I’ve never heard of anything like this!”

 

“What god?” Michael said, but he already knew; he knew, and he was cold to his bones.  

 

“Anubis,” Lindsay said.  “This is his city, after all.”

 

Slowly, so slowly, Michael reached into his pocket.  He drew out the marble; he raised it into the light.

 

It was the lapis eye of Anubis.

  
  
  
  
  


_Dark—dark—the endless dark—_

 

The sound of Ray cocking his pistol dragged Michael out of a waking nightmare.  As he blinked, the darkness settled in around him, and he took in Gavin’s warmth as Gavin pressed against him, squeezing his arm.  (“ _Michael_.”)

 

He realized they had moved away from the chamber, that the ceiling was heavy above them again, centuries of earth and sandstone and sand pressing in; that the air was thick and hot and difficult to breathe in.

 

He was about to reply, to say something, to ask what the hell was going on, when he heard the murmuring, rising like a river overflowing its bounds.  It was getting louder and louder and bouncing crazily off the walls—it seemed to be coming from all directions.  A sudden, weird, underground breeze made the torches flicker, and the light danced wildly across the the statues and extinguished.

 

Ray made a garbled noise of panic and anger.  “Jesus Christ what is going on,” he hissed.

 

“I can’t see, I can’t see for shit!” Michael hissed back.  He fumbled at his belt, dragged his guns from their holsters.  “Oh, _sssshit_ —”  The goddamn motherfucking eye of fucking Anubis was still in his fucking hand—he hurled it into the suffocating darkness and didn’t hear it hit the ground.  “Stay close!  Stay close, everyone hang on to me, hang on to each other, Jesus—”

 

“I got this,” Lindsay whispered, “get ready, boys,” and she wrestled with her pack and swore and gave a little cry of triumph, and—

 

 _Click_ :  the steady beams of her fucking Eveready electric lamp swept through the dark like a floodlight.

  
—and at the far end of the corridor, suddenly illuminated, the figure of a man stretched unnaturally tall and thin turned creakily towards them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how I said I wasn't going to do research? ...I started doing research. It turns out in ancient times oases were places where Egyptians sent prisoners to die slowly of malaria, def. not places where huge cities could grow up (unless you count Dakleh and that story's as interesting as fuck! read about it!), OOPS. Oh well. Anubis does have his own city though! The Greeks called it Cynopolis, which is indeed ‘city of dogs’ but that’s not nearly scary enough. Artistic license, bitches!!


	5. no harm in that

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about all the cliffhangers. I'm pretty sure every chapter from now until THE BITTER END is going to be a cliffhanger. Please forgive me.
> 
> (All that stuff I'm having Lindsay spout about ancient Egyptian curses and punishments? That is 80 percent taken from the Mummy franchise and 100 percent total bullshit. This is an adventure story! An adventure story I wrote using the least possible amount of factual information and research!)

Everyone screamed, Geoff loudest of all.

 

“You sons of bitches!” he yelled, when they had recovered their breath and put all their weapons away.  “Oh god damn it, oh Jesus, I nearly shit my pants.  You complete assholes.  Tuggey, get that fuckin’ light out of my eyes.”

 

“What the hell are you doing here?”  Michael’s voice sounded way higher than he wanted it to be.  He coughed and cleared his throat.  “This is our turf.  We agreed.”

 

“Yeah?  Well, this is just where our path ended up.  It’s a big fuckin’ circle, lad.”

 

“Find anything?” Michael said.  His heart was still pumping hard inside his chest, which, in a way, was reassuring.  In his dreams he could never feel his heart at all, because the jackal man had taken it and was holding it in his palm.

 

Geoff groaned.  “Nothing.  This place is empty as dicks.  Ain’t nothing down here but dust and more dust and so much fucking sand.  You?  Anything?”

 

“Oh, well—” Gavin began, and Michael elbowed him, hard.  “Ouch, Michael, careful! We found a bloody great chamber, didn’t we, lads?  With some statuary.” 

 

“Oh yeah?” Geoff sounded interested in this; he had perked up a lot.  “Anything shiny?”

 

“Nah, mate, ’s all wood and sandstone, innit.”

 

“Aargh,” Geoff said.  “Where’s all the gold, damn it?  You said there would be gold, Gavin, you little shit.”

 

“And there _is_ , Geoffrey!” Gavin was getting squawky and indignant.  “There is.  I feel it—in here!”  He thumped his skinny chest.  “Right here, Geoff!  Ow, Michael—”

 

"Jesus Christ, could you get more irritating?" Michael muttered, but he kept his hand on Gavin's shoulder and gave it another, gentler squeeze.

 

"Well, now what?" Geoff said, sounding despondent.  "Should we comb through this whole damn deathtrap again?"

 

"No pain, no gain," Griffon said, grinning.  "Come on, toughen up, husband.  Let's go."  She nodded to Lindsay.  "See you at suppertime, Miss Tuggey.  Gavin, behave yourself.  Come on, boys."

 

They turned and marched back the way they had come, kicking up a whole lot of dust and supernatural cacophony as they went.

 

"Not gonna lie," Ray said to Michael in an undertone.  "I think I shit my pants just now."

 

Michael half-laughed, half-croaked, and clapped him on the back.  "Me too, bro.  Me too."

 

Lindsay was tugging at his sleeve.

 

"What's up?" Michael said.

 

“So, I hate to say this, but I'm pretty sure I made a mistake,” Lindsay said.  Now that she had his attention she let go of his arm and started walking back and forth in the looming darkness, and the light followed her, shining on the enormous feet and outstretched hands of the statues, illuminating the reliefs on the walls and making them… _move_.  

 

"Psst, Michael," Gavin said, nudging him, and Michael tore his eyes away from the image of Anubis standing over him on the wall and focused on Lindsay—just Lindsay.

 

Her voice echoed around them, getting louder and faster and very, very excited.  “It’s not a tomb at all—it’s a temple.  A temple to Anubis and his legions."  She was coming back again, getting closer, clearer.  "We’ll have to rethink the map we drew.  The layout will be completely different.  Let's set up some torches.  Oh, and I want to put together some kind of work desk.  We could probably camp down here for the night; it'd be warmer, at least.  Oh, I have an idea about the lighting, too—what are you gaping at, guys?  Come on, we have a lot of work to do."

 

 

 

 

 

"What are you looking for, anyway, Lindsay?" Michael asked, standing beside Lindsay while she drew miniatures of the reliefs into the little field notebook she had brought down with her.  "Is it mummies or treasure?"

 

"Neither," Lindsay said.  "Both.  Aw, hell, I don't know.  I want my name in all the books.  I want to go to conferences and tell Howard Carter to suck it."

 

"Yeah, okay.  That's legit.  So how the hell'd you end up with this crew of nutjobs?"

 

She laughed.  "Voluntarily.  But they found me.  Stole me right from under the Institute's director's nose."  Sobering, she clarified, "Well, all right, so I just got fired and I was kind of _really drunk_ in a hotel bar.  But it's the Institute's loss."

 

"I'll say," Michael said.  "We're lucky to have you."

 

She just thumped him on the chest.  "Yeah, whatever.  Don't get all sentimental.  I'm gonna make you eat those words, Michael Jones."

 

"Oh yeah?"

 

"Yeah.  You're digging tomorrow.  I'm just gonna sit back and watch.  Crack the whip every five minutes."

 

"Sure thing, Sheikha," Michael said.

 

 

 

 

_Campfire._

 

Geoff had better news at suppertime.  Jack, through the time-honored method of pressing his ear against the wall and tapping, had discovered something that sounded hollow.  He and Ryan had broken through with shovels and a sledgehammer and they had recovered some temple goods in beautiful alabaster and gold.  Canopic jars, too, which was weird (said Lindsay) because there were no bodies nearby.  One of these jars had the head of a black dog, in some kind of deep, dark, polished stone, the details of the face and neck made of beaten gold.  There was something inside the jar, something dry and ancient, that rattled when they shook it (carefully, oh so carefully).  It wasn't the find of the century but it would get a good price on the market.  And a better price if they took it home to some American collectors who had expressed _considerable_ interest.  The best price if they could find a full set.

 

So Geoff was happy.  Michael's skin was still crawling.  He kept looking over his shoulder at the black city—kept feeling fingers on the back of his neck.

 

Lindsay was explaining about the temple business.  She hadn't explained why the museum had thought it better to let her go, but Michael was beginning to surmise that it might have something to do with her _fucking terrifying_ knowledge of all the gory stories of ancient Egypt and the enthusiasm with which she shared that knowledge with innocent bystanders.  She was detailing ancient punishments right now, the kinds where people got strapped to benches and mummified alive, their tongues cut so they couldn't cry out or curse their executioners.  Because curses uttered at the time of death were the most powerful of all—according to ancient Egyptians at least.  

 

Then there was the story of Osiris, involving some pretty significant dismemberment, gents, lads, you might want to cover your ears—oh, but she digressed.  She fucking _digressed_.

 

"Me and Michael and Ray and Gav, we’re gonna stick with it, though, aren’t we, boys?”

 

“Yeah,” Michael said, snapping to attention.  “We’re gonna dig down.”

 

“We think there maybe chambers below this one,” Lindsay said.  “Actual embalming rooms.  Complete with mummies!”  

 

“You’re a strange one, Lindsay Tuggey,” Griffon said, sounding like she didn’t entirely disapprove.  "Well, husband, shall we lend them a hand in the morning?"

 

Geoff shrugged.  "Sure, why not.  'M feelin' generous."

 

After serious discussions had finished it was time to break out the Bourbon.  Griffon told a story about Geoff that had Gavin on the ground crying with laughter, and even Michael had to wipe away some tears because it was that fucking funny—what kind of idiot manages to get himself run over by hansom _three times_ in one day?—and Geoff retaliated with a story about that time Griffon had too much to drink and took out most of a port in New Orleans, and then he took a swig from his flask and went straight on to the time (well, the ten times, actually) that Gavin had managed to set Jack's house on fire.  Ray capped it off with some gentle reminiscing about the week he and Michael had spent as prisoners of an ancient civilization living in a system of caves and valleys behind a waterfall somewhere in Central America.  They had been about to be sacrificed to the sun but had escaped during a timely solar eclipse.

 

"Yeah, that eclipse was timely as fuck," Michael said.

 

"You're some lucky sons of bitches," Geoff said.  Jack toasted to that.

 

Ray laughed.  "Let's hope it stays that way.  Am I right?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Rubble._

The thing Michael didn’t like about ancient tombs—and this applied to Mayan and Aztec and Qin Dynasty shit too, he didn’t discriminate—was that they were _old as fuck_ and prone to collapse if you brushed up against something the wrong way.  Or, you know, if a _goddamned idiot_ named Gavin tripped over his own feet and knocked into something with his shovel at _just_ the wrong angle and all of a sudden the entire fucking floor was falling in and everyone was yelling and there was dust and rock everywhere—

 

“Oh fuck me, Jesus fucking Christ,” Michael said, picking himself up.  Quick check:  No bones broken.

 

“Ooooh,” Lindsay said.  She had fallen on her side and was sort of just lying there, dazed.  “God _damn_.  Ouch.”

 

“You good?” Michael said.  

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Lindsay said.  “Gimme a hand, this thing’s got me pinned—”

 

Grunting, Michael heaved the piece of statuary off her and pulled her into a sitting position.

 

“Oooh, that’s gonna leave a mark,” Lindsay said, rubbing her shoulder.

 

Michael swore.  “God damn it, Gavin—”

 

“I’m fine too, Michael, thanks for askin’,” said Gavin, from somewhere to his right.

 

“Gavin!  Hold still, you stupid asshole,” Michael snapped, and groping around in the dark found Gavin and manipulated his limbs angrily, checking for breaks or sprains.  None again, thank fuck for that.

 

“Christ on a crutch—” this was Geoff now “—I told you not to lean on that thing, you _moron_.”

 

“Sorry, Geoff,” Gavin chirped, sounding very fucking _not_ sorry.  Michael pinched him.  “Ow!  Michael!”

 

“You know what?” said a voice, possibly Ryan—possibly Jack?  Who the fuck knew.  “You know what, I think I don’t like this place.”

 

“I don’t think this place likes _us_ ,” Geoff said.  

 

“Michael!  Hey!”  Of course Ray hadn’t fallen down the fucking hole.  He was peering over the edge now, holding Lindsay’s Eveready.  Griffon was beside him, having leapt, cat-like, away from the crumbling floor.  “Hang on, we’ll throw down the ropes—”

 

“All in one piece, hon?” Griffon called.  “Gav?”

 

“Yes, love,” Geoff said.  “Get us the fuck out of here.  Please?”

 

They were stalled by Lindsay, who let out a yell that echoed and bounced around them.  (“Oh, god, is it snakes?  Is it snakes?” said Geoff.)  

 

“No!  No!  Oh my god!” said Lindsay.  “Ray!  Ray, throw me the light!  Oh my god!”

 

Through the dust clouds Michael saw the beams begin to dance—

 

_Treasure._

 

 

 

  

 

There was more yelling and more dust after that.

 

There was a mummy, all right.  Or a sarcophagus, anyway:  chipped from faceted, glowing black stone, at least seven feet long.  They had fallen into a tiny, airless chamber, and as Lindsay swept the light across the walls, the carved reliefs began to sparkle and glitter.  Ray let out a low whistle.  The walls had been studded with jewels.

 

"Lindsay Tuggey, you are worth your weight in gold," Geoff warbled.  "Silver.  Electrum.  _Every precious metal ever_.  I will go back to Austin and build a statue in your honor.  _Ten_ statues."

 

Lindsay laughed—she hadn't really stopped laughing since she had shone the light on the sarcophagus and let out a scream of pure joy.  "Excellent."

 

She was bent over the stone lid, taking notes and occasionally mumbling, "Aha!"  She had evidently decided to turn a blind eye to the rest of the Hunters, who were picking at the walls like vultures.  Every so often she would call out a string of puzzling phrases that only Ray _partially_ understood, thanks to all his treks to the archaeological institutes of Cairo.

 

"Hey, Jones, give us a hand," Jack said.  Michael wandered over.  He wasn't feeling so good—there had been a humming in his head ever since they landed and his vision was going all dark and blotchy.  He was starting to think he might be concussed after all.

 

"Three," Lindsay said.  "Two..."

 

"Fuuuck," Michael said, as he and Ryan and Jack heaved the lid of the sarcophagus open.

 

"Oh—my— _god_ ," said Lindsay, slowly and reverently.

 

There was a coffin nestled inside the sarcophagus like a fucking Russian doll, smooth and dark, made from some kind of polished wood, still fragrant after so many centuries.

 

"It's intact," Gavin said, leaning over Michael's shoulder.  "Brilliant!"

 

"This is it," Lindsay said.  "This is the one." 

 

"What one?" Michael said.

 

"The one buried at the foot of the god," Lindsay said.  "The one whose name they chipped from the walls.  The one who did something very, very _naughty_."  And then, before Michael could say anything, like maybe, _Okay, so this one might be booby-trapped, let's be careful as fuck, okay, all right, Lindsay?_ she was pushing past him, past Gavin, and just straight up touching the damn thing, running her hands up and down like she was looking for some kind of—

 

 _Click_.

 

"Aha!" Lindsay said, triumphant, and the sarcophagus fucking _blew open_ —

 

The air went black and heavy in front of Michael's eyes, and Michael yelled, and Gavin yelled, and—

 

Nothing.  _Nothing_.  The goddamned thing was empty.

 

"What?" Lindsay said, staring.  "No, but— _what_?  What the fuck?"

 

"What's going on?" Michael said.  He shoved the torch inside the wooden thing, dared it to burn.  Inside the sarcophagus were markings, like—

 

Lindsay traced them with her fingers.  When she drew back her fingernails were dark with some kind of soot.  "Scratch marks," she said, frowning down at them.  "In the paint.   _Sons of jackals, I am the Revenant, the Walker, I am coming for you._   Oh, wow.  That's scary."

 

"If _you_ think it's scary, it must be," Ray said, coming up beside them.  "So, bro, what's going on?"

 

"That's what I want to know," Michael said, tight, and he felt the anger taking hold of him and he let it, because it was better to burn than to feel so fucking _scared_ , scared of a shadow, scared of words, of an empty fucking coffin.

 

"I think," Lindsay said slowly, "—I think his own people destroyed his body.  I think they buried him with all due ceremony, because he was important, and five, ten years later, they came back, and they cut his cartouche from the walls of the temple, and they took his body and burned it, or left it to the desert.  Because what he had done was so evil it was poisoning the place.  Because they wanted to purge the place of all traces of him.  The Revenant," she murmured.  "Ooh, that's so _creepy_ , I love it!"

 

"There's something else here," Gavin said, stretching his hand into the darkness inside the sarcophagus.  He shrieked and Michael grabbed him, dragging him bodily backwards.  

 

"What the fuck is it?" Michael shouted, going for his pistol and hearing Ray do the same.  "What is it?  Are you all right?  God damn it, _say_ something, you asshole!"

 

Gavin gasped.  "Sorry, just—nicked m'self on some rock or glass or somethin', sorry, Michael—'m all right—"

 

"Jesus fucking Christ."  Michael let go and watched Gavin get to his feet.

 

He got up, kind of unsteady, holding something carefully with both hands—a long, thin wooden box, painted black.

 

"Grave goods," Lindsay said, hushed.  "They must have missed these when they came to destroy the body."

 

" 'S locked," Gavin said.  "Should we—"  He made a motion like he was about to throw the box on the ground and smash it.

 

"Jesus Christ, no," Lindsay exclaimed.  "You might break what's inside.  Put it in my pack; we'll take a look at it when we're above ground.  Griffon says you're her go-to lockpick."

 

"Oh, well, yeah, I s'ppose," Gavin said, shuffling his feet and sounding pleased.  "I'm not half bad."

 

"Why leave the sarcophagus at all?" Ray said.  He reached out to touch it, then drew back his hand.  "Seems half-assed."

 

Lindsay said, "I think they saw the words written there and were too frightened to touch it.  Curses are serious business to ancient Egyptians.  If my reading of the carvings on the sarcophagi is correct, then they must have moved the entire city center in the century after these bodies were buried—just a little bit further away, to escape the 'evil influence.'  Or, you know, the desert started encroaching on the oasis, forcing them westward.  One or the other."

 

The darkness had taken on an oily quality; it was shifting around him, murky, and the air tasted weird, damp and metallic.  Lindsay and Ray were still talking but their voices were swimming around him, the words swirling together into indistinguishable sounds.  Something was definitely wrong with his head.

 

"Gonna get some air," Michael muttered.  "Stuffy as fuck down here."

 

"I'll come with ya," Gavin offered, but Michael shook his head and shook him off.

 

 

 

_Sundown._

 

They set up camp in the temple that night, foregoing tents and throwing their bedrolls out on the beaten dirt floor in the statue room.  It was probably preferable to being exposed to the desert elements or the emptiness of space, but to Michael the high ceiling of the place felt like it might as well have been a few feet above his head, looming, heavy, tomb-like.  He kept glancing at the walls, the shapes there brought to life again by the flickering torches and lanterns.

 

"Hang in there, bro," Ray said.  "Won't be long now, I'm sure."

 

Lindsay hadn't stopped moving since their discovery that afternoon.  She'd been scribbling notes on a pad of paper for hours, and even drawing some of what she saw on the walls.  She had noted the positions of all the statues and their relationships to one another; she had pointed her electric light at their faces and written down who she thought they were.  Now, even though Michael thought it was a bad fucking idea, and said so, she had wandered off into the dark by herself, to get a sense of the rest of the place and find a mummy or two.  

 

"Don't worry," she'd said, giving Michael an odd look.  "Desiccated bodies aren't known for their homicidal tendencies."

 

"If you aren't back in two hours, I'm coming after you," Michael said.

 

"Of course I won't be back in two hours," Lindsay said.  "This place is huge.  You can send a search party if I'm not back by sun-up."

 

And off she went.  Geoff laughed uproariously, called Michael a superstitious bastard, and offered him a drink to ease those nerves of his.

 

Jack pulled a deck of cards from his breast pocket.

 

"Poker?" he said.

 

"I barely know 'er!" Ray said. 

 

 

 

Michael took an unofficial first watch, groping his way around in the darkness of the corridor.  When he got back, swearing a bit because he had tripped over a piece of fallen statuary and scraped up his hands, Lindsay was still nowhere to be found, and Geoff and company had fucking disappeared.  There were bottles and cards scattered everywhere.  They had left him a note.  It said, simply,  _Gone Hunting._  

 

There was another piece of paper balled up beside it.  Michael smoothed it out and saw that Gavin had scrawled,  _Back soon so do not fret.  You're my boy, Michael!_

 

Smiling a little despite himself, Michael tucked the note into his pocket and went to bed.  He woke up after half an hour from a thin and uneasy sleep, with a hazy memory of brown hands flexing and the sound of distant laughter.

 

He broke apart his rifle and started cleaning it, piece by piece, and was just about to put everything back together when Gavin came trudging into his peripheral vision, kind of unsteadily.  He was holding something behind his back.

 

"Where the fuck have you been?" Michael demanded.

 

"Treasure-seekin'," Gavin said.  "Revelin'.  All right, Michael?"

 

"Just peachy," Michael said.  "You come to tuck me in?"  

   

"Got bunced from the expedition," Gavin said, by way of incoherent explanation.  "Geoff says my suggestions are bollocks and I'm bringing' down the morale.  His morale, to be precise."

 

"Right." 

 

"Anyway, I thought you and I could take a look at this," Gavin said, and held out the box.  In his hands it looked smaller now—much less imposing—much more worn.  

 

It had been polished once—lustrous and well-cared for.  It might have had its own pedestal, once upon a time.  Maybe even an attendant to hold it and present it to someone important.  And they had found it lying in the dark, alone in the rubble.

 

 _Three thousand years_ , Michael thought.   _Goddamn_.  Aloud, he said, "Now?"

 

"Yeah, before I misplace it," Gavin said.  "Pretty, innit?  It's all lacquered up with resin and tar and protective spells and all sorts of ancient stickiness.  I chipped through all that and guess what I found?"

 

"Gold and glory for King and country?" Michael said.

 

Gavin scoffed.  "As if.  Don't be silly, Michael.  I found a lock."

 

"Fantastic."

 

"It _is_ fantastic," Gavin continued, unfazed, "because I know exactly where to find the key."  Quick as a flash he put his hand to Michael's neck and yanked, and the medallion came away in his hand, gleaming in the firelight.

 

"You're shitting me," Michael said.  "So that's what it is?"

 

Gavin nodded, beaming.  "Yup."

 

He showed Michael the box and carefully, biting his tongue a bit, worked the medallion into the empty circle that sat on the lid.  

 

"Damn," Michael said, impressed despite himself:  it was a perfect fit.  

 

"Neat, eh?" Gavin said, letting Michael take the box and turn it in his hands.  "And it still works, after thousands of years!  Bet Lindsay could tell you loads more about ancient Egyptian mechanical devices and whatnot."

 

"Just how they were used to torture political prisoners," Michael said.  "All those grisly details.  Right.  So—are we going to open it now?"

 

"Uh huh," Gavin said.  "And we'll be the first people in three thousand years to see what's inside."

 

"You sure you don't want to find Lindsay first?" Michael said.  "She's gonna be pissed…"

 

"We'll just have a little peek first," Gavin said, softly, twisting the medallion in a slow, gentle circle.  "Just a little peek.  No harm in that."

 

"What's it say, anyway, on the lid?" Michael said.  "I saw some, uh, some of those hieroglyphs."

 

"It's kind of obscured," Gavin said, "but it's the usual warning, you know, 'Death on swift wings will come to whomsoever opens this box,' death to you, death to your family, death to your descendants and the whole of Egypt, death, death, death death deathy death, plagues, boils, hideous burns, et cetera, et cetera—tease it—hup woop— _oh_ —"

 

The box came apart in his hands.

 

And out of the box came a cold screaming wind.

 

And out of the ground came scorpions—hundreds of scorpions, their carapaces black and shining.


	6. all right, so as it turns out, there was a lot of fucking harm in that

For a single paralyzed moment Michael wondered if he was having some kind of crazy fever dream and that none of this was actually happening, and then a scorpion started crawling up his leg and okay, time to go.

 

Gavin was clearly not having the same thoughts.  Or, you know, even thinking.  He was looking at the box in his hands like he was in a trance.

 

"Blimey," said Gavin, breathless.  "Blimey—I mean, _bloody hell!  What—_ "

 

Michael wrenched a torch from its makeshift holder and swept it violently into the seething black ground.  Scorpions skittered around it and then continued, heedless, straight for him.  If anything they just looked a little more pissed off than before, their evil fucking stingers going up even higher.  Well, fuck.

 

"But—what—"  Gavin was still spluttering.  The two halves of the box slipped from his hands and were engulfed.  There were scorpions everywhere now; they were crawling up his legs.  "What the _fffu_ —"

 

Michael put both hands on Gavin’s face and gave his head a little shake.  “Gavin!  Hey!”

 

Gavin’s eyes focused.  For a moment he just stared at Michael, dazed, and then he jolted and said, “Oh, oh, the box!  I dropped the box!”

 

"Forget the box, asshole,” Michael said, slapping scorpions off both their legs, “we got a situation here!  Come on!  Run, fucker!"

 

"The medallion, the medallion—" 

 

Michael ducked down and snatched it up from where it had fallen—shook all the scorpions off it and pushed it deep into his pocket.  Then he shoved Gavin hard in the back, knocking him forward into the mouth of the temple.

 

"Go!  Go!  Fuck you, run!" he roared.  "Find the others!  Go!"

 

 

 

 

Officially, this was one of the worst nights of Michael's life, right up there with that time he and Ray got trapped in a blizzard and had to huddle for warmth for the longest eight hours ever, and that was the last time he was ever gonna bring that up, _on pain of death_ , thank you.

 

Gavin still wasn’t moving right; he ran like he was drunk, staggering and swaying.  Michael thought he might be having some kind of scorpion-induced panic attack and stayed behind him, prodding him to keep going like some kind of overgrown border collie.

 

There were scorpions falling out of the fucking _ceiling_.  Michael batted them away with his not-so-busted arm and shook himself like a dog and scorpions fell out of his fucking clothing.

 

He pushed the torch into Gavin’s trembling fingers and shouted, “Swing that!  Just hit ’em!  Hit ’em and don’t stop moving!”

 

With one hand holding on to Gavin’s belt he spun around and started firing randomly into the writhing black mass.  Scorpions went flying—more scorpions skittered up to take their places.

 

“We have to get to higher ground!” Michael said, fumbling at his ammunition belt.  Of all the times to disassemble his rifle, Jesus fuck—

 

“Will that stop them?”  There was definitely something wrong with Gavin; he was slurring like crazy and it wasn’t just panic now.

 

“Gavin—”

 

Gavin was breathing hard.  “I don’t—I don’t feel well at all, Michael—”

 

“Fuck, fuck, okay—okay, just—take my hand, give me the torch—come on, good lad—come on, Gav—”

 

Michael had pretty much gone numb with all the fear and revulsion and complete, burning anger at his total helplessness against an onslaught of essentially tiny, fragile, but scary-as-fuck-in-numbers _bugs_ , but dimly, amid all the fury, he realized the scorpions weren’t actually following them—they were trying to get above-ground.  He moved the torch down and the scorpions swam around it, clearing a path.

 

“Changed my mind,” he said to Gavin, who was slumped against him.  “We’re goin’ down.”

 

“Okay,” Gavin mumbled, disturbingly compliant.  “Whatever you say, Michael.”

 

“Jesus.  Just—hold on, I’ll take a look at ya in a bit.”  

 

Michael felt their way along the carved walls.  The first rush of scorpions was coming to an end and only a few stragglers remained, scuttling up and down looking for an exit.  The further they walked the quieter it got.  All Michael could hear was his breathing, and Gavin's, shaky and fast, and the low, muffled crunching of their feet on the pounded dirt floor.

 

Abruptly, his groping hand hit empty air—there was rubble at his feet.  This must be the side chamber Ryan and Jack had broken into.  

 

“Here—here,” Michael said, catching Gavin as he stumbled.  “Give me your hands.  Did you get stung?  Bitten?  What’s going on?  Gavin!”

 

“Give me a mo’,” Gavin gasped.  “Just—be fine inna minute—hhhuh—”  His head lolled.  “Dunno—sausages— _ss_ —s—sorry, Mm—”

 

“Okay, okay, shh, don’t talk.  Shh.”  

 

All he could feel was Gavin's hands clamped _tight_ around his, wet and clammy.

 

The darkness swooped overhead, rustling, like old cloth and dry bandages and the wind creeping over centuries of bone and dust and blood—

 

Fuck.

 

 _Fuck_.

 

He’d been too focused on getting Gavin away from the goddamn bugs, he hadn’t even scanned the room, and—there was something there.

 

 _There was something there_ , in the dark, where nothing should be, where the _air_ hadn't fucking moved in three thousand years—

 

Gavin whimpered, once, and then went quiet and muffled, like he had pressed his other hand into his mouth in an attempt to stop any sound escaping.  Michael was biting down on his lips, trying to steady his breathing, trying to _move_ , to break the grip of whatever it was that held him.

 

He'd had enough of being fucking terrified in the dark.

 

"Show yourself!" he shouted.  "Fuck you.  I'm not afraid!  Show yourself!"

 

He heard—in his chest, in his _head_ —he heard it speak.

 

It wasn't the jackal man.  It was something else.

 

It said, to Gavin, **_I thank you_** _._

 

"Eeeargh," said Gavin, trembling.  "You're…welcome?"

 

**_Are you afraid?_ **

 

The darkness swirled around them, sucking inward towards a single pinpoint, and suddenly Michael found himself looking at a man.

 

It was a man all wrong—stretched, somehow, grown unnaturally tall and thin, the jaws malleable, the smile too wide, the teeth too fucking sharp.  The eyes were black pits.  Just looking at it, at the weird, twisted shape of it, Michael felt sick.

 

When it spoke again, forcing air through misshapen lungs and throat, it was with the hissing of a thousand voices—man and woman, animal and human, the screams of the dying and the sound of the wind through the river rushes, all blurring together into one monstrous noise.

 

" _Does it please you?_ This form?"

 

It came towards them, its gait staggered and unnatural, half-walking, half-gliding.  There was still something skull-like about its head, where the flesh was wrapped too tight over jutting cheekbones, the nose too thin and sunken, the lips drawing back too far from those _teeth_ —

 

"Ohhh knobs, oh god, " Gavin said unsteadily, as the thing reached out—

 

Michael's heart flipped over in his chest.

 

"Hey, asshole!" he said.  "Get your fucking hands off him!"

 

His words died in his mouth as the thing turned creakily toward him.  The sightless eyes fixed on his face.

 

"Dog of Anapa," the thing said to Michael, that fucking smile stretching even fucking wider.  Teeth—endless teeth.  "Your precious amulet will not keep you.  Your priests are dead.  The jackal man has no power over me.  Dog of Anapa, I have come for you.  I am the Walker, the Revenant.  I will bury your cities.  I will wither your heart.  The scorpions and the crocodiles will take your flesh.  I will bring the desert winds to howl through your dry bones."

 

"Yeah, well, _fuck you_ ," Michael spat, "Wither this, bitch!" and he jerked up his rifle and fired.

 

 

 

 

 

He wasn’t expecting it to do much—and it didn’t—but it was enough.  The thing, whatever it was, that _shape_ , roared and recoiled and rippled and sank back into the dark, and all of a sudden Gavin just _gasped_ like he was breathing in for the first time—

 

“Gavin?”

 

Michael reached towards him but the thing screamed, and the room went black as night, and the air was _burning_ —

 

Gavin’s hand closed, vice-like, around Michael’s.  

 

“Leg it!” he yelled.

 

 

 

 

 

_Legging it._

 

At the mouth of the ruins they met Jack and Ray, who were full on _sprinting_ towards them.  

 

Jack’s eyes were wide and staring.  "The desert is full of fucking scorpions!  Scorpions!  Out of fucking nowhere!  Jesus Christ!  What the fuck!"

 

"Good news," Michael gasped out, "we found the evil.  Bad news, it's amorphous as fuck and impervious to bullets.”

 

"What?  Oh, balls," Ray said.  “Uh, I mean, great.”

 

They found Geoff and the other Hunters in the heart of the city.  They had used part of a ruined sandstone wall to climb onto the mud roofs of the ancient houses and were huddled there, saying very little and drinking heavily.  Lindsay met Michael's eyes as Ray and Geoff helped him clamber up onto the roof.  She didn't say anything but there was a general look of "Aaaaargh! Scorpions!" on her face.

 

"What the shit is happening?" Geoff said, voice warbling all over the goddamn place.

 

"I don't know," Michael said.  "There was a box, Gavin opened it, the box disintegrated and fucking _scorpions_ just—"

 

"God damn it, Gavin," said Geoff tiredly.

 

"I didn't know!  I didn't realize!" Gavin said.  "I'm sorry!"

 

Wordless, Griffon passed a bottle around and they all took burning sips, panting, watching the black mass of scorpions stream out into the desert. 

 

Then, from the western edge of the city where the temple stood, came a great dark cloud, _humming_ —

 

"Sand," Lindsay said.  "Oh my god."

 

The sand _shifted_ ; gaping jaws yawned wider.  The wind swept across the desert, howling with a human voice, the sound reverberating like thunder, settling inside Michael’s head, inside his _bones_.

 

He couldn’t see them, but Michael knew there were eyes in that storm, huge, hollow, inhuman eyes, and they were looking right at him.

 

They didn’t have time to do anything but duck and cower.  The sand blasted over them, through them, tearing at every exposed bit of skin, that unearthly voice keening and wailing until it was the only thing they could hear.  

 

It passed quickly, whirling off towards the east, gaining speed and size, obliterating the rising moon and stars and taking the scorpions with it.

 

For a moment no one could speak.  Gavin picked himself up slowly, coughing and gagging; he hadn’t covered his mouth and nose in time.  Lindsay thumped him on the back.

 

“Fuck you too, desert,” Ryan said.

 

“All right,” Geoff said, hoarse.  “I’m gonna guess that you unburied the buried evil.”

 

“Er, might have done, yeah,” Gavin gasped.

 

“You _asshole_ ,” Geoff said.

 

"It was just a normal bloody box," Gavin said.  "How was I to know it would release a plague of evil upon the earth?"

 

"You could have _read the label_ ," Michael snapped.  "I hate you, Gavin, Jesus Christ that box had fucking warnings _all over_ its fucking lid, don't fucking touch, don't fucking read, _don't fucking open_ —"

 

"They say that on all the ancient containers!" Gavin protested.  "Death and more death!  There is never any death!  How was I supposed to know?  Anyway, it's just scorpions!  Not death!"

 

" 'Just scorpions'?  There were more scorpions just now than there ever were in the entire world!" Jack bellowed.

 

"I'm sorry!"

 

“You’re talking about the box you found earlier, right?” Lindsay said.  “The black box?  Next to the empty sarcophagus?”

 

Gavin nodded.

 

“Can I see?”

 

“No.  I mean—it’s gone.  It—fell apart.”

 

Michael sucked in a deep breath.  “It didn’t _fall apart_ , Gavin, it broke into two neat-as-fuck pieces and unleashed some kind of _demonic wind_ and brought back the soul of the undead shapeshifting asshole who is now riding a goddamn sandstorm in the direction of heavily-populated city centers hell-bent on the total destruction of humanity—”

 

Gavin waited until he had run out of air.  “What Michael means is I unlocked the box.  Uh, and then I dropped it.”

 

“Was there anything in the box at all, or was it empty, like the sarcophagus?"

 

"Just—" Gavin hesitated.  "Just, I think, a _heart_ , maybe?"

 

"A what?"  Lindsay's voice was sharp.

 

"Just this darkish grayish lump," Gavin said.  "It disintegrated when I touched it—it just went to dust.  And then, er, all that other stuff happened."

 

"Gavin, I swear to God," Geoff said, rubbing his temples.

 

"That's bad," Lindsay said.  "That's really—that's _wicked_."

 

"What?  What are you talking about?" Michael said.  "What's wicked?  What the fuck is happening, Lindsay?"

 

She was practically wringing her hands now.  "The heart is what gets weighed after death, to decide whether or not you've been good enough to go to the West and live eternally, or get fed to Ammit to die a second death.  So if what I'm thinking is right, they must have hated this guy so much they didn't even want him to get _judged_.  They just wanted him to suffer for all eternity.”

 

She was quiet a moment, staring at the dark sarcophagus—they were all quiet—and then she said, "Can you imagine?  Wandering for so long—lost—your body destroyed, your heart hidden, while your spirit just— _degrades_ —and warps—"

 

"Damn," Griffon muttered.

 

"No wonder the writing on the sarcophagus tried to scare us off," Lindsay said.  "Whoever it was that buried him—they were afraid someone was gonna find him—find his heart.  And do exactly what we did.  They failed.  And we fucked up."

 

 

 

_Apocalyptic dusk in the desert.  Awesome._

 

They just stood there in silence, letting her words sink in.

 

“Yeah, fine, so what do we do now?” Ray said.

 

Geoff said.  “I came here for the buckets of treasure.  And so far there has only been, like, one bucket—”

 

“Less than,” muttered Ryan.

 

“—so I vote we clear this place out, before sunrise, and get the fuck outta here before the aforementioned primordial force of darkness comes back for us.”

 

“No,” Michael said.

 

“Are you shitting me, Michael Jones?” Geoff said.  “Are you with us?  Did you or did you not just see more scorpions than there are grains of sand _come out of the fucking sand_ and skitter off into the distance to wreak havoc?  That sandstorm had _eyes_ , man.”

 

“Yeah, I saw that,” Michael said.  “And I saw some more shit underground.  And no, I’m not going anywhere.  You came here for the treasure, but I came here to kill the jackal man.  Ray’s with me.  Right, Ray?”

 

“What?  Uh, uh, yeah.  Sure.”  Ray paused.  “Are you _sure_?  You have a hole in your shoulder, you know.  Take it easy, bro.  Sit this one out.  You gotta recuperate.”

 

“That _thing_ isn’t gonna wait for me to recuperate!” Michael shouted.  “It’s out there!  It’s coming back for me—you can scurry back to civilization with your tails between your fuckin’ legs but I’m stayin’ here to get the job done, or I’m gonna die trying.  At least then I’ll get some fucking rest!”

 

“Whoa, whoa, Jonesy,” Geoff said, hands out, placating.  “We’re with you.  The Hunters, we don’t run at the first sign of trouble.”

 

“You’re about to pack up and haul ass out of here!”

 

“Hey, Tuggey, back me up here,” Geoff said.  “How’s that wise and ancient proverb go again?”

 

“O brave soul, get the fuck out and live to fight another day,” said Lindsay promptly.  “Something like that, anyway.  Translation’s kinda iffy.  Spirit of the thing, you know, all that.”

 

“That’s right.  You heard the lady.”

 

“We don’t know what we’re up against,” Lindsay said.  “We can’t stay here.  God knows what else is gonna come up out of the sand.  Vipers?  Asps?”

 

Geoff shuddered.  “Jesus Christ, I hope not.”

 

“Where the fuck are we gonna go?” Michael demanded.  “That thing’s out there.  It could be in fucking Cairo by now.” 

 

“Well, we’re not going to Cairo,” Lindsay said.  “We’ll go to Thebes.  To the Institute.”

 

“They fired you,” Michael said.

 

Lindsay grinned.  “How much do you wanna bet they’ll be willing to forget _all_ about that?”  She held up a canopic jar.  “The location of the lost city of Uten Sakhal and six of these solid gold babies says they welcome me back with open arms.”

 

 

 

 

_Desert.  Not lost.  Just running for their goddamn lives.  So, nothing new, really._

 

They rode to Beni Suef at breakneck speed, sleeping in shifts in the saddle.  With Michael’s camel lost in the first sandstorm and three others vanished during the chaos of the evening, they had to double up.  Gavin rode with Geoff, Michael with Ray, and so on.

 

The sandstorm had lifted, or blown off to parts unknown, and they moved through clear air, most of the time.  Michael wasn’t used to this sort of quiet.  Every so often he would look back over his shoulder, gun at the ready, expecting to see _him_ , that shape of a man, drifting after them, teeth bared, long, spindly fingers outstretched. 

 

But there was just Gavin, who waved.  Every single goddamn time.

 

Grumbling, Michael turned back to survey the horizon.

 

Another camel died on the last leg, throwing Griffon and Lindsay—just lay down and died without making a sound—and Geoff and Jack went the remaining twelve miles on foot.

 

The desert seemed faded.  Even the sunlight was weak.

 

The oasis at Beni Suef was was like a ghost town, its wells turned to mud and its inhabitants crouched inside the Bani fort, still shell-shocked.  The air was hazy with sand.  Over liberal medicinal doses of Bourbon and Scotch, Jack extracted several spectacular tales of horror from the Legionnaires there involving scorpions and suffocation.  

 

The fields were choked with sand, the outpost destroyed.  In low, tentative whispers the Bedouin traders described the wind that had ripped through their stalls like the voice of god.  The men lost in the storm had been found the next day, nearly buried, all the skin flayed from their bones.

 

They wouldn’t agree to part with a single drop of their remaining potable water, for any price, and after a while Geoff admitted, quietly, that he felt like a giant asshole just trying to bargain for it.  They could go thirsty for one day.

 

It was a day’s trek up to the port, but when they got there, they couldn’t find a single captain willing to take them upriver.  News of devastating sandstorms had made its way down the Nile, brought by stragglers, white to their lips with dust and sand, and incoherent telegrams, the contents of which were rapidly disseminated through village networks.  Stories of stretches of the Nile overrun by crocodiles so aggressive they would attack travelers on the banks and snap at the hulls of wooden boats were rife.  In the end Griffon settled the matter by flashing a bright smile and pressing a particularly fine winged pectoral and two bronze statuettes into a riverboat captain’s open hands.

 

The riverboat was meant to carry fifty passengers, but there were none—just Michael and Ray and the Hunters, and two terrified merchants who had been caught out on a re-supply trip, making their way upriver to make sure their homes were still intact in the big city, who refused to leave their cabin.  

 

Lindsay hadn’t left her cabin since they boarded, either.  Ray was holed up with her, and they were shooting theories back and forth about what that thing was and how they could stop it.  They got sidetracked a lot, though; Michael opened the door once with a scheduled food delivery and saw them sitting at the table gleefully discussing all the ways the falcon-headed Horus could have beaten the shit out of his evil uncle Set.  (With his own severed leg.  Or his mother Isis’s decapitated head.  Just two examples.  Jesus.)

 

It was three days to Thebes and Michael spent most of that time pacing, still casting anxious looks at the horizon with bloodshot eyes, cleaning his guns with twitching fingers.

 

The Nile had diminished, drying until even the sandy roots of some river reeds were exposed, throwing up the bones of the ancient dead, polished smooth over the centuries.  

 

The Hunters stayed on deck most of the time, too, drinking and laughing, playing card games and having knife-throwing contests.  Their bravado was probably alcohol-fueled, but Michael wasn’t gonna be the idiot who tried to pry the bottle away from Geoff’s still-living fingers.  It was good, anyway, having something to fill the eerie, empty silence, although right now that was mostly snoring.  Geoff was actually hugging a bottle to his chest.  Jack was still holding his cards.

 

Michael wandered past them and sagged, exhausted, against the railing.  By his count it was two in the morning, and his eyeballs felt like they were made of sandpaper, but every time he closed his eyes, every time he so much as blinked, the jackal man reached for him.

 

He twitched and swore in surprise at the hand on his shoulder.  For a split second it had claws, and they sank into his skin, then—

 

Ray smiled at him.  “Hey, bro.”

 

“Oh.  Hey.”

 

“Hanging in there?”

 

“Barely,” Michael said, and groaned.  “I feel like shit.”

 

“No kidding.  You’ve got more holes in you than a piece of Swiss cheese.”

 

“Swiss fucking cheese, man,” Michael said, grinning.  “What the hell are you doing awake?  Can’t sleep?”

 

“Never went to sleep, bro.  Talking to Lindsay about Near Eastern creation myths.  That shit is crazy, let me tell you.  About to hit the sack.  Thought I’d come check on you first, though.”

 

“Well, I’m still here,” Michael said.  “Keeping watch.  Even though I can’t see a fuckin’ thing.”

 

Ray yawned, stretched.  Said, casually, “Gav’s in cabin four, by the way.”

 

“The one time my parents took me to Coney Island—I was, like, six—I fed my ice cream cone to a stray dog.”

 

Ray frowned.  “What the fuck?”

 

“Oh, sorry, I thought we were trading irrelevant fucking information.”

 

“Hey, come on.  I’m looking out for you, man.”

 

“It’s two in the fucking morning.”

 

Ray shrugged.  “Well, his light’s still on.”

 

“Seriously?  What the fuck is he doing?”  

 

“Same thing we are, probably,” Ray said.  “You know what’s good for chasing away the jackal man?  Alcohol.  You know what you and me and Gav haven’t had today?  Copious amounts of alcohol.”

 

“How the fuck do you even handle it?” Michael said.  “I can’t even—I can’t even close my eyes, Ray.  He puts his hand in my chest and he takes out my heart and there’s nothing I can do about it.  Not a single fucking thing.  Every single fucking night until I feel like I’m losing my goddamn mind.”

 

“Oh, well, you know.  Meditation and shit.  Shit the monks taught me when we were in Kokonur.  Think of roses and everything comes up roses.  Shit like that.”  Ray patted him carefully on his healing shoulder.  “Just go knock on the goddamn door, all right?  Have a nightcap.  Don’t try to meditate, bro, you’re just gonna rage yourself into a headache. Keep the noise down, all right?”

 

“Ray.  Go fuck yourself.”

 

“’Night to you too.”

 

 

 

 

 

_Where the fuck do you think._

 

He didn’t bother knocking, just marched right in, door banging on its hinges, and tackled Gavin backwards into the bed.  The kerosene lamp rocked but did not fall.  

 

Gavin let out one of his ridiculous high-pitched yells.

 

“Aaaah, Michael!  What the damn d’you think you’re doin’?  Gave me a bloody heart attack, you git.  Oi, hands off.” 

 

Michael just put his arms around him and held on until Gavin stopped flailing and went agreeably pliant.  “Hey.”

 

Gavin exhaled:  whoosh against Michael’s earlobe, sending a pleasant tingling up and down his spine.  “Wossamahr?” 

 

“What?” Michael said.  “Speak English, asshole.”

 

Gavin sighed, then repeated himself.  “What’s the matter?”

 

“Can’t sleep.”

 

“Join the soddin’ club,” Gavin said.  “Been countin’ sheep for absolutely hours.”

 

“Who the fuck counts sheep?”

 

“Sensible people, Michael.  Sensible people who don’t go wanderin’ around the decks of boats like ghosts.”

 

“You were watching me?”

 

Gavin made a garbled noise.  “Just keepin’ an eye on you.  Like I said I would.”

 

“How’s your heart?” Michael asked.

 

Gavin laughed.  “Er, goin’ pretty fast, actually.  At the moment.”  He met Michael’s eyes and looked away, quick, suddenly shy, like he had any goddamn reason to be.

 

Jesus Christ.

 

It was ridiculous, it was so fucking ridiculous what this idiot was doing to him.  He couldn’t fucking breathe.

 

“Fuck it,” Michael said, and he rolled over and straddled Gavin, who squawked and gasped and turned slowly purple.

 

“You’re making me crazy, you know that?” Michael said, low.  “I can’t stop fucking thinking about you.”  He put his hand on Gavin’s throat, gentle, felt the pulse skittering under the skin.  “Gav, can I—?  Gavin, please.”

 

He felt Gavin breathe in, shakily, and then he was reaching for Michael, drawing him down.

 

“All right,” Gavin said.  “Go on, then. All right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ufufufufufu~ fade to black~~
> 
> (sorry I'm so sorry _so sorry_ )


	7. interlude:  rockin' the boat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, so this wasn't part of the original outline, but then I was greeted with some sad faces and felt like an asshole, so I womaned up and tried my best to deliver. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with this stupid story so far. Here is some porn. I wrote it just for you. And wrapped it up and tied a ribbon on it.
> 
> I'm going to crawl back into the gutter and expire now. orz

“All right,” Gavin said.  “Go on, then.  All ri—mmph!”

 

Michael didn’t need to be told twice.  He went for it, lunging and missing like a fucking idiot, pressing his kiss to the corner of Gavin’s mouth.  

 

Gavin snickered.  “C’mere, you doughnut.”

 

It was different and spectacular, kissing Gavin without _fumes_ trailing down his throat, tasting him instead of burning Scotch.  Knowing that Gavin wanted him, sober; that Gavin wanted him and it wasn’t a last fucking wish kind of thing—no hangman here, in a grim dark hood.

 

What was more, he could fucking _feel_ Gavin fucking smiling as they kissed, making happy little noises, nosing at him whenever he drew away to breathe, and it was _killing him_.  

 

“Gav, Gav, say something,” Michael said.  “Am I doin’ okay?  You good?”

 

“I’m _brilliant_ , Michael,” Gavin said, “just tippity-toppers,” and he sounded so blown away, so fan-fucking-tastically happy, that Michael had to stop and just put his head on Gavin’s shoulder for a second, overwhelmed.  Gavin laughed and kissed the top of his ear.

 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Michael moaned, surging upright so he could fit their mouths together again.  Gavin met him halfway, hands curling in Michael’s hair and pulling tight.

 

He wasn’t even tired anymore.  What he was was so fucking turned on he couldn’t even fucking _see_.

 

He rocked forward, groaning, and Gavin let out a little choked noise, and Michael liked how that sounded—liked how it felt, too—so he did it again.  And he slid his hands down Gavin’s sides, feeling the heat of him through the thin fabric of his undershirt, and then he was at the edge of the shirt, and pushing up, and making contact with skin—

 

“Michael, Michael,” Gavin said, tugging at him.  “Michael, _wait—_ ”

 

It was hell pulling away; he came up gasping, like he’d been underwater.  Gavin was just looking at him, eyes dark, lips wet and parted, breathing just as hard.  But his hands were clenched in his lap.

 

Michael sat back.  “What—what is it?”

 

“Your shoulder, Michael,” Gavin said. 

 

“Don’t give a fuck,” Michael said, nuzzling him, biting at his jaw.  “Grif can stitch me back up again.”

 

“She’ll murder you is what she’ll do,” Gavin said.  “Bein' so reckless.”

 

She probably would, but for other reasons—chief among them the idiot sitting in front of him right now, bright-eyed and well-kissed.  Griffon and Geoff—Gavin’s _family_ —that was another thing Michael had to think about, but, fucksake, not right now.  

 

So he shook away Gavin’s hands, held out to stall him, started plucking impatiently at the undershirt.  “Gavin, can I take this off?  Wanna see you—touch you.”

 

“Oh, tits,” Gavin said unsteadily.

 

“Can’t help you there,” Michael said.  “Sorry, sweetheart.”

 

Gavin huffed out a laugh—thank god for that.  “You’re mental, Michael Jones,” he said, “but on your head be it,” and he pulled off his undershirt and balled it up and threw it over his shoulder.

 

“Do me too—”

 

“Cheers, I intend to—”

 

“—my shoulder’s still fucked,” Michael finished.

 

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Gavin said, but he started fumbling at Michael’s collar.  “Okay to proceed and all that?”

 

“I am beyond okay,” Michael said.  Fucking fuck, why did his shirt have so many fucking buttons?  “Are _you_?  You’re still shaking, dumbass.”

 

“It’s just nerves, Michael, you dope!” Gavin said.  “Your first bloke, ain’t I?  Wanna make it good.”  

 

“Kiss me again,” Michael said.  “I like that.”

 

“Bein’ honest tonight, aren’t we,” Gavin said, leaning in with a big, stupid grin on his face, and obliging.

 

Michael bit at his lower lip, drawing a quiet hiss and Gavin’s hand fisted in his hair again, dragging him close.  “’M always honest, asshole—mm—you’re the one always messin’ around, avoidin’ me—”

 

Gavin’s hand was moving, sliding down Michael’s stomach and palming his dick through his pants, and Michael was fucking choking on air.

 

“All right, there, Michael?” Gavin said, smug.

 

 _There you go again, you little shithead_ , Michael wanted to say, but the only thing that came out, thin and desperate, was “Gavin _nn_ —” 

 

He was still fucking tied up in the sleeves of his shirt; he tried to struggle out of them and stopped, swearing, as his shoulder sent him a big old fuck you in the form of sharp, lancing pain.

 

“Take it easy, love,” Gavin said.  He kissed Michael again, slow and deep, and Michael sighed and sank into it.  “I’ll take care of ya,” Gavin said.  “’Til you’re healed up.  Yeah?”

 

“No,” Michael said.  “Wanna touch you too.  C’mon, Gav—”

 

“Next time,” Gavin said, and eased Michael back until he was lying down, and leaned over him, tangling their legs together.  

 

Gavin pressed his palm to Michael’s skin, fingers splayed out.  

 

“Been in a lot of battles, then?” he said, staring.  “Bloody hell, Michael.  You’re a walkin’ jigsaw.” 

 

“I’m not gonna break, asshole,” Michael said, angrily, because the way Gavin was looking at him was making his stomach do somersaults.  “ _Gavin_.”

 

“Patience, love,” Gavin murmured.  “Just enjoyin’ the view, yeah?”

 

“You fucker,” Michael said, feeling his blood burning under his skin.  He sucked in a single, startled breath as Gavin started tracing the network of pink-and-white scars, first with gentle, trailing fingertips, and then _his mouth_.

 

“The things I want to do to you, Michael,” Gavin said, humming.  And licking.

 

“Gavin,” Michael said, strangled.  “You—you _son of a bitch_ —”

 

“Oi, be nice,” Gavin said.

 

Michael bit his lip, stared wildly at the cracks in the ceiling—tried not to _die_ from sheer stupid arousal.  “Gavin, you _fuck_!”

 

“I am indeed,” Gavin said cheerfully, and he tugged Michael’s trousers down, licking a long wet stripe down his palm, and closed his hand around Michael’s dick.  

 

Michael’s head banged against the bed frame.  He bit out a curse.

 

“Is it good?” Gavin said.  He was breathing hard, other hand curved around Michael’s hip, fingers digging into skin.  He kissed Michael’s temple, his cheek, his throat.  “All right?”  

 

“Unnh,” Michael said, panting.  “ _Fuck_.  Yeah.  Yeah—”

 

“You’re lovely, Michael,” Gavin said.  “Proper lovely.  Look at you.”

 

“Gav,” Michael said, lifting his face, pleading, and letting Gavin kiss him, sloppy and open-mouthed.  “Gav—ungh, _fuck_ —”

 

And then Gavin was shimmying down, coaxing Michael’s legs apart, settling between them—

 

“Gavin, no, c’mon, Gav—”

 

“Hush,” Gavin murmured, and Michael banged his head again, seeing stars, vision going weird and dark around the edges, the last vestiges of conscious, rational thought blasting away into outer fucking space.  Gavin’s tongue slid against the underside of his cockhead and his mouth stretched around him, hot and wet and perfect, following the smooth, firm pressure of his hand as it moved up and down.    

 

He gagged a bit as Michael thrust up involuntarily, moaning, and gave Michael a little slap on his flank.

 

“Sorry—fuck, _fuck_ ,” Michael said, running his hands over Gavin’s skull, up and down the back of his neck, kneading his shoulders.  He couldn’t keep his hips still, arching higher and higher—  

 

“Gav, stop, fuck you, _stop_ , I’m gonna—”

 

Gavin pulled back with a wet pop and Michael hissed and shuddered as the air hit his skin, suddenly cold.  Gavin’s hand was still on him, lazy, feather-light strokes, but as he met Michael’s eyes he _grinned_ and squeezed, just a little bit, and started bending forward again—

 

“Come here, you little asshole,” Michael snarled, and dragged Gavin up, tugging him forward until he was in Michael’s lap, just about.  He groaned and Gavin gasped and they rocked together for a moment, until Gavin tried to wriggle away and Michael locked his arm tight across small of his back, keeping him there while he undid his trousers.

 

“No you don’t,” Michael said, and, shakily, “Oh, my god, Gavin, Gavin,” as his fingers closed around Gavin’s dick, “you’re _dripping_ , Jesus fuck—”

 

Gavin choked, bucking, and then his head fell forward onto Michael’s shoulder and he stayed there, tensed, gasping, hand braced on Michael’s chest as Michael started jerking them both off.

 

Michael kissed his ear, kissed his jaw, listening to the sound of Gavin trying to keep quiet, feeling his chest heaving and the rasp of air in his throat.  He let his fingertips ghost across Gavin’s nipples and followed them with his tongue and Gavin let out a moan, _finally_ , and bucked, dick twitching.

 

“That’s better,” Michael said, and he meant to sit back and smirk but ended up just kissing Gavin again, licking into Gavin’s mouth, tasting himself on Gavin’s lips.

 

“Smarmy— _git_ ,” Gavin gasped, moaning again as Michael circled his nipple with his thumb, then pinched.  “Aah—Michael, _Michael_ ,” he panted, and then he was coming, spilling over Michael’s hand and both their stomachs.

 

Michael groaned, hips working, still stroking them both as Gavin twitched and shuddered.  “You’re the best, you’re perfect, Gav, oh fuck, _oh fuck_ —”

 

Gavin didn’t say anything, just arched forward, mouth sliding onto Michael’s, kissing him deep, hips roiling, fingers tight in his hair, swallowing Michael’s gasp as he shivered and came.

 

He stayed there for a little, leaning over Michael, stroking little cries and curses out of him and kissing them all away.  Michael hooked his arm over Gavin’s back, holding him close, and they rode out the aftershocks together, trembling, until—

 

“Blimey,” Gavin said hoarsely, sitting back on his heels.  His pants were down around his knees, his dick, pink and wet, still half-hard against his thigh.  There was come smeared across his stomach, his chest.  His nipples were pebbled and tight, wet where Michael had licked them, his lips swollen.

 

He yelped as Michael tackled him, pushing him down, then laughed and sighed happily into Michael’s mouth as Michael kissed him again.

 

“Come on, y’wanker, that’s enough, let me up!”

 

“Don’t wanna,” Michael said, settling over him, intertwining their arms and legs into something resembling a wrestler’s hold.  He kissed the closest bit of Gavin he could reach—his shoulder blade, as it turned out.

 

“Lemme clean us up at least,” Gavin said.  He tried to sit up; Michael just held on tighter.  “We’re gonna get stuck t’gether.  Trust me on this one, Michael, love.”

 

“Tomorrow,” Michael said, eyes half closed already.  There was a warm, happy ache in his body, drowsiness settling heavy over him.  He realized he was bone-tired.  “Gav.  Sleep.”

 

Gavin sighed again.  Then he leaned over and blew out the lamp, and settled back down into Michael’s arms, drawing Michael’s fingers to his lips, letting Michael squeeze him close and press little kisses against his spine.

 

After a very short while Michael heard him breathing deep and easy, asleep already.

 

Michael breathed out, quiet, and closed his eyes.  The riverboat rocked under them, lulling him to sleep.


	8. night at the museum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the MASSIVE delay. lots of shit happened. like, I moved to Canada? and started grad school?? and got a job???? and finished my first year of grad school????? whoa!!
> 
> also all that mad king thing happened during the hiatus and I was like whoa whoa now what and had to replot some stuff (and maybe rewatch the mummy like. twelve times? FOR RESEARCH of course. and science)
> 
> the response to this story has been kind of overwhelming (and awesome, so awesome! I’m chuffed to bits to discover fellow Mummy enthusiasts) and I started stressing out about fuckin’ character voice and utilizing every bit of existing canon and HEY PRESTO apparently that’s the best way to never get any writing done.
> 
> anyway, the wait is over!

 

Michael woke up sticky and sweating and not entirely sure where he was.  Then a shadow fell over him and he looked up and saw Gavin, eyes bright, smiling down at him like his own personal fucking sunbeam.

He was grinning back before he understood what his face was doing, reaching up to cup the back of Gavin’s head and pull him down for a quick, sour kiss.

Gavin hummed and bent forward into it, and wow, it had been a long fucking time since Michael had appreciated mornings like this.

Ryan said, “Uh.”

Michael yelled, scrabbling at the sheets and dragging them up to his waist.  “Oh my fucking god, Jesus dicks, Haywood, didn’t your momma ever teach you to knock?  God damn it, Gavin, why didn’t you say anything?”

“Well, I was about to, but I got interrupted, didn’t I,” Gavin said cheerfully.  “’Morning, love.  Slept well?  The deep sleep of the well-shagged, yeah?”

“Uhhh.  Sorry,” Ryan said, and he did sound really fucking sorry, but Michael figured he was feeling sorry for himself, for opening the door and having to stand there during the whole fucking painful exchange.

“What do you want, Ryan?” he said.  Fucking fuck, his face was _burning_.

Ryan—who was just a little bit pink in the cheeks—coughed.  “Just wanted to let you know we’re hitting Thebes in an hour.  Geoff says, ‘pack your shit and be ready,’ ‘cause the captain doesn’t want to dock and we’re probably going to have to fight some crocodiles to get to shore.”

“Are you serious?”

“As the Black Death,” Ryan said.  “And now I know why Ray didn’t want to come get you.  Come on, Gavin, on the eve of the apocalypse?”

“Best time for it,” Gavin said.  “If you ask me, and y’did.  Cheers, Ryan.”

Sighing, Ryan excused himself.

“Fucksticks,” Michael said.

“Shoulda seen how red you got just then,” Gavin said.  “You’re lovely, Michael Jones.”

“Shuddup,” Michael said.  “Jesus Christ, just shut up.  Fuck.”

“Ran you a bath,” Gavin said.  “Figured you might wanna, you know,” and he gestured up and down his body in a way that should not have been _quite_ so obscene as it was.  “Join you if y’want, Michael.”

“Fuck off,” Michael said, struggling out of the bed and staggering into the cramped water closet.

Gavin’s idea of a bath was the sink filled to capacity with lukewarm water and a filthy rag, but it was better than nothing, so Michael got to work, scrubbing at the mess on his chest and stomach.  

His side was feeling better.  He flexed and then went momentarily cross-eyed thinking about all the things he was gonna do to Gavin when he had a working set of arms again.

He groaned and ducked his head straight into the sink.

“Tryin’ t’ drown yourself?” Gavin said, poking his head in and retracting it hastily when Michael spat water at him, squawking, “Eurgh, Michael, Christ!” and gagging, and holy shit, that was bringing up another set of memories and turning Michael bright fucking red again.

Brain scrambling pokers.  Scarabs.  Flesh-eating scarabs.  Okay.   _Okay_.

He wrestled back into his shirt and pants and rinsed out his mouth with sandy water a couple of times, until the sour morning taste was gone.

Gavin was waiting by the door, rumpled but ready.  His mouth dropped a bit when he saw Michael, and his cheeks went redder and Michael’s heart did the weird flopping thing he had come to associate with Gavin and all Gavin’s various forms of stupidity.

“Come on, idiot,” Michael said, clapping him on the back.  “Let’s go.”

 

 

 

_Thebes, the Institute._

Lindsay was wrong about the red carpet treatment.  Unless she and Michael had massively fucking different ideas about what red carpet treatment entailed.  In general, Michael would rate having histories of the Sinai peninsula thrown at his head as a negative, three points outta ten, would not experience again.

The museum was deserted, gates closed.  They’d had to pick some locks just to get in.  Lindsay didn’t seem bothered by this.  In fact she was the one who had supplied the pins, plucking them out of the mass of hair coiled at the back of her neck and sprinkling them liberally into Gavin’s outstretched hands.

Breaking and entering achieved, Lindsay led them through a darkened gallery filled with mummies and pieces of tomb walls and up a spiraling staircase to a cramped study packed floor to ceiling with books.  There was a space cleared in the center of all this chaos, and in that space was a desk in sleek polished black wood.

Pacing around that desk was an angry man, dark-haired, wild-eyed and a little scruffy, wearing red suspenders and a dirty work shirt.  He had a book in each swinging hand—books that looked like they had either been read a lot or used in hand-to-hand combat.

“You fucks!” the man shouted, brandishing the books as they filed in.  “I go away for six fucking months and this is what happens.  They fire my best cursebreaker and a bunch of assholes unleash the ten fucking plagues of Egypt!”

 

Definitely hand-to-hand combat.

“Hey, Gus,” Lindsay said, slapping her satchel onto the desk and dislodging a telegram that read, _Gus Uten Sakhal the real deal Bringing friends back with me We need your help Have you looked outside recently You may have noticed the sand Sometimes it has eyes Sorry about that Kisses Tuggey_.

“Hey, Gus,” Geoff said, giving a little wave.

“Hi, Gus,” Gavin said, looking sheepish.

“Fuck you, assholes,” Gus shouted.  “I don’t want to see your faces.  God damn it, Gavin.  Shoulda known you would be mixed up in this.  Shoulda shipped you off to Australia with Burnie.  Fuck everything.  I’m never taking a sabbatical again.”  He took a deep breath, and then another, rubbed his hands across his face and pinched the bridge of his nose.  “Hello, Griffon.  It’s good to see you.”

“Likewise,” Griffon said, from her post by the window.  “Lookin’ good, Gus.  How’s Esther doing?  Research going okay?”

“Oh, fine, fine.  Reclassified a species of carnivorous mammal last week, so she’s happy.”

“That’s great,” Griffon said.  “From those pelt and bone fragments she found in storage?”

“Uh-huh, yup.”

Michael cleared his throat, which turned out to be a mistake.

Gus swung wildly, book flapping, nearly decapitating Michael (Ray had wisely chosen to retreat to the edge of the room).  “Who the fuck are you?   What are you doing in my office?  It’s the goddamn apocalypse!  Go away!  Go run for your lives or something, you stupid sons of bitches!”

“I’m done running,” Michael said.  “It’s no use yelling until your face turns purple— _shut up, Ray, shut the fuck up,_ stop _sniggering_ —we gotta stop this thing.”

“This is Michael Jones,” Lindsay said.  “He’s an adventurer.”

“A warrior,” said Gavin.

“Sure.”  Lindsay clapped Ray on the shoulder.  “This is Ray Narvaez—”

“Junior,” Ray supplied.

“Junior.  He’s a budding Egyptologist.”

“Rosebuds all up in this place,” Ray said, nodding.

“Right,” Gus said.  “And they’re in my office why?”

Michael ripped the medallion from his neck and slapped it onto the desk and watched Gus’s eyes go big and shocked.  “This is why.”

Gus listened to the story about the temple, and the statues, and the empty sarcophagus.  He nodded along as Geoff described the scorpions.  He spun the medallion in his hands, idly, and sighed, and sighed again.

Finally, he said, “Tuggey, you’re un-fired.”

“Too late, Gus,” Lindsay said.  “I’m workin’ for these guys now.”

“All right, then, come back when you’re done.”

“Cataloguing in the back room?”  Lindsay shook her head.  “I don’t think so.”

“Ten percent pay raise.  Double your yearly bonus if you avert the apocalypse.”

“I don’t know if you remember,” Lindsay said, “but I happen to be sitting on the location of the lost city of Uten Sakhal.”

“So you’ll lead the expedition and present your findings at the next winter conference.  Naturally.”

Grinning, Lindsay shook his hand.  “It’s good to be back, boss.”

 

 

 

_Early evening, library, pissed the fuck off because ‘Mr. Birch has suggested that φυλακτήριον has been substituted by Horapollo for φύλακα’—wow, nope.  Nope.  NOPE._

The thing about scholarly texts, especially the ones that were translated from German or French or Dutch or whatever the fuck, was that Michael couldn’t read more than a few sentences of them before going cross-eyed.  He took a deep breath and looked up, scanning the room to see how the others were doing.

Geoff, Griffon and Jack weren’t even reading—they were playing cards by the window.  But Jack was looking into the storm, alert and watchful, and Griffon was holding her cards in one hand and a pistol in the other.  Geoff was scratching his chin and scowling at his hand, but even then Michael could see that he was ready to spring into action.

Ray was engrossed in _The Complete Book of Egyptian Gods and Goddesses_ , sitting cross-legged on the floor beside Ryan, who was quietly browsing the shelves.  

Lindsay, obviously, was having the time of her life.  She was bent over a huge-ass book with Gus sitting beside her, and they were deep in discussion—Michael was pretty sure but couldn’t really believe it—about verb conjugations.

“But if you place the _kth_ at the end of the phrase it completely changes the meaning,” Lindsay was saying, heated, but her eyes were sparkling.

Gus scowled and retorted, “Fine, but—” he coughed out a long string of guttural syllables “—doesn’t make any fucking sense either!”

“Maybe, but if we read this 'glyph as _mntr_ , then. . .”

Finally, Michael turned to watch Gavin, and let his eyes linger.

Gavin was in his element.  It had been weird enough watching the change take place, as Gavin hunted the shelves with a look of concentration:  the stupid grin fading, his eyes sharpening, all playfulness gone, full of intent.  He was bent over with his nose literally in a book now, scribbling notes, humming to himself and nodding every so often.  Michael saw him mouthing syllables.  Once or twice he turned to Lindsay and Gus to confer before bending down again or running over to the shelves for another book.

He looked different.  He looked competent.  And— _vivid_.

“What the fuck,” Michael muttered, feeling his chest go warm and tight.

He didn’t want to let Gavin outdo him, despite the not-so-sneaking suspicion that he was already leagues out of his depth.  It wasn’t like he wasn’t trying—hell, if the fate of the world was at stake and the answer was lurking somewhere in a hundred-year-old book, then Michael fuckin’ Victory fuckin’ Jones could sure as hell put his nose to the pages.  But shit, when half the book was in fucking Greek and the other half was _pictograms_ —

He snapped _Hieroglyphica_ shut with an explosive, “God damn it!”

Gavin didn’t even look up.

“Everything okay, bro?” said Ray instead.

Michael said, “Jesus Christ, I only went to public school.  Where the fuck did you assholes learn to read this shit?  I can’t understand a fucking word of any of this!”

“Then you can get the hell out and let us work in peace,” Gus said.  “Go patrol the perimeter or something.”  As Michael goggled incredulously at him, he said, blandly, “Seriously, if you can’t help, fuck off.”

“I’ll come with ya, Michael,” Geoff said, yawning and stretching.

“No, it’s okay,” Michael said.  “Siddown, enjoy your game.  I’m just gonna go clear my head.  I’ll holler if anything sandy and evil blows my way.”

“There’s a wonderful exhibit on the second floor,” Lindsay said.  “If you get bored.  Funerary goods.  Oldest pomegranate in existence.”  

 

But as Michael began to to trip and stumble his way through the piled-up books and papers and the low, narrow door, Gus pressed the medallion back into his hand.

“Here,” he said.  “Keep it on you.”

“Don’t you need this?” Michael asked.  The metal was warm; it seemed soft and alive in his hand.

“No,” Gus said.  “But you will.”

Then he shoved Michael out into the stairwell and slammed the door.

 

 

 

_Gallery.  Darkness.  Display case containing a shriveled gray lump, apparently the world’s oldest piece of fruit.  Who even gives a shit._

If there was one thing Michael hated more than primordial evil, or scorpions, it was waiting.  

It had been at least an hour—maybe two.  Michael thought it was still daytime, but he couldn’t be sure:  the sand had risen to blot out the sun, and the feeble light making it through the windows was murky, dancing with a million little shadows.

He wondered what the hell they were doing in there.  A grammar lesson?  Poker?  Book-throwing?

Groaning, Michael wandered back into the adjacent gallery.  A sign proclaimed it to be Household Objects of the Amarna Period, but the museum was clearly closed, perhaps out of consideration for its other staff who would probably have objections to working during the apocalypse, and most of the artifacts were not on display.

Some of the cases had been draped with sheets—shrouded.  This whole setup was eerie.  Bughouse.  He felt like a goddamn ghost, wandering the exhibits in the dark.  He couldn’t even hear his own goddamn footsteps.  The sand outside was humming like a hive of bees.

For a second Michael just closed his eyes and stood there, and listened to the humming—and imagined golden sunshine filtering through green leaves.  Bees hovering in the clover.  June in Jersey.  A cold drink in hand.  Ray laughing.

But Ray’s laughter faded and the light fell away and there he was, the jackal man, that statue of Anubis, sitting there sharp and black with its single eye glowing hot.

“Fuck!” Michael said, eyes snapping open, forcing the shadows of the covered exhibits back into his vision, but the afterimage lingered.

_Creak._

 

“Geoff?” Michael said.  “Griffon?  Jack—that you?”

He touched the medallion, which he’d tied to his belt.  It was cold now but it warmed under his fingers as he squeezed it.  

_Creak.  Scratch._

 

“Jesus hopscotching Christ, oh my god,” Michael said.  “If that’s you, Ray—if you’re fuckin’ with me, Ray, I’m gonna put a hole in you.”

He saw it when he turned the corner into the mummy room:  a huge stone sarcophagus, its lid removed to give visitors easier access to the mummy within—

_Scratch, scratch..._

 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Michael said, finger slipping on the trigger.  “Sweet baby Jesus.  That better not be what I think it is.  Fuck.”

A whispering, a clatter, and the fucking mummy came _shrieking_ out—

Michael screamed and swore and swore again.

“Hullo, Michael!” said Gavin brightly.  He manipulated the mummy’s forearm and the poor dead fucker seemed to give a little wave.

 

Michael threw his pistol to the ground, counted to ten three times, and took a deep breath.  And then he bellowed, “Gavin, you _fuck_ —do you have _any respect_ for the dead?  I could have shot you, you stupid fucking moron—will you put that fucking body down—?!”

“You didn’t, anyway,” Gavin said, unfazed, still smiling.  “Can we have a kiss, then, love?”

“No,” Michael spluttered.  “I am not—you have a goddamn’ corpse draped around you, fuck no!”

“Aw, don’t say that, you’ll make him sad,” Gavin said.  Conspiratorially, to the mummy, he said, “Don’t worry, Ptah’tep, he doesn’t mean it.  Not a sausage of it!”

“I mean every single fucking sausage of it.  Out, out, get out, hasn’t he suffered enough—Jesus!”

“It’s Ptah’tep,” Gavin said, but he clambered out of the sarcophagus and brushed himself off, and then stood there looking gawky and dusty and kind of shy.  Michael clenched his fists at the sight of him.

“Cheer up, Michael!” Gavin said.  “He’s not really come back to life.  All is well.”

Michael was rapidly reassessing the need to respect the dead versus the need to rip off Ptah’tep’s arm and beat Gavin to death with it.  

Instead, he said, “So?  Study session over?  Do we have a plan?”

“You know, Michael, I quite like this fellow,” Gavin said, thoughtfully.  He tapped the side of the sarcophagus. “Says here he was a village headman.  In charge.  Powerful.  ’Course he’s all withered now, poor sod.”

“Gavin.  Ancient evil.  Armageddon.  Battle plan?”

Gavin smiled wide.  “Oh, well, dunno yet.  ’S getting a bit heated in there—Gus natterin’ on about sand demons, Lindsay not havin’ any of it.  I just thought I’d come read with you.”

“And cuddle up to a dead guy.”

An indignant squawk:  “Michael!  Didn’t you miss me?”

Michael rolled his eyes.  “Yeah.  A whole two hours.  I was about to send out a search and rescue.”

But Gavin wasn’t discouraged.  “You were countin’!  Michael Jones!”

 

 

 

_Museum.  Sleepy.  Kind of flirting._

There was a little alcove outside the gallery on the second floor, with a wooden bench stained to high gloss.  Michael sat down, sighing a bit, and Gavin stretched out beside him.  He had borrowed The Complete Book of Egyptian Gods and Goddesses from Ray, and without waiting for Michael to agree, started reading from it.  

He read quickly, his voice low but animated.

“The jackal-headed god, Anubis, has long been associated with death and the afterlife.  Once worshipped as the very Lord of the Underworld, his throne and prestige were usurped by the pharaonic god Osiris—that’s the green fella, Michael, if you remember, done up like a mummy—in the Middle Kingdom.  Anubis has many other names, including the Embalmer and Guardian of the Scales.  In later Ptolemaic traditions he came to be associated with the psychopomp Hermes—”

Michael stopped him with a hand on his thigh.  “Psychopomp?  What the fuck?”

“Sort of a guide, y’know, for the dead,” Gavin said.  “Leads ’em where they’re meant to go.”  He turned the page.  “See also:  Ammit, Anput, Kebechet, Maat.”

“Right.”

“Michael!  This is important!”

“I get it, already.  God of the dead, drags you down into the depths of hell.  Not my favorite.”

“Depths of—” Gavin yelped.  “Michael!  Were you listening at all?  He’s not evil, far from it!  That’s what I wanted you to realize!”

“What is he, misunderstood?” sneered Michael.

“That’s not what I mean!”  Gavin jabbed emphatically at the page he had been reading.  “We’re terrified of anything to do with death—and I’m sure the ancient Egyptians were as well—but Anubis was a protector, a guardian!  He kept the jackals and desert scavengers from tearin’ at your defenseless corpse!  He protected the Scales of Truth so that all those who were worthy would be able to move on to paradise—in one piece!  The Egyptians liked him.”

“I see,” Michael lied.

“I think you’re doin’ him a disservice,” Gavin said, “being so afraid of him.”

“Who the hell said I was afraid?” Michael said, scowling.

“ ’S written all over your face, innit!” Gavin said.  “You’re unbelievably jumpy today.”

“Aren’t you scared?” Michael demanded.  “Jesus Christ, with everything—that thing in the temple—”  He stopped suddenly.  “Hey,” he said.  “How come you still haven’t told the others what happened?”

“What?” Gavin said.

“The—the thing we saw,” Michael said.  “The shadow—the Sandman.  What he did. Isn’t that important?”

“I don’t want Geoff and Griffon to worry,” Gavin said, looking away.

“Why should they worry?”  Michael realized that was a stupid question.  “Jesus, they’re already worried!  We all are.”

“Michael—”  Gavin still wasn’t looking at him.

“Hey,” Michael said, softly, like he was trying to coax a cat out from under a bed or something, “hey, Gavvers.  What is it?  What aren’t you telling me?”

“You know, I’ve only ever been afraid for my life once,” Gavin said, and even though he was looking at the gallery wall, he was staring at something way beyond it—at England, maybe, all green and soft after the rain, and nothing like the darkening sandscape outside.  

“It was before I met Geoff ’n’ Griffon.  I was still in short trousers.  Me and my boy Dan—we pooled our pocket money to take the train to Ashbury.  They had been digging there the year before, at Wayland’s Smithy.  We wanted to find a new site, become world-famous archaeologists!”  He scoffed, shaking his head.  “The bloody barrow caved in.  Christ, I thought we were done for.”

Michael, cheek pressed against Gavin’s shoulder now, breathed in.  “What happened?”

“D’you know, I don’t remember,” Gavin said.  “When I came to, I was in hospital.  It was nearly a week later.  Mum was cryin’, Dad was cryin’, everyone was furious.  They pulled me out of school after that.”  He gurgled with laughter, bouncing Michael’s head a bit.  “So I came out on top, really!”  

“And Dan?” Michael said.

“Oh, he’s fine,” Gavin said.  “Came out with nary a scratch.  Up at Oxford now.”  He hesitated.  “We write.  ’Course, he doesn’t know what I’m really doin’ here.”

So this was Gavin’s friend back home.  All right.  That was fine.  It was Michael here now with his head on Gavin’s shoulder and Gavin breathing softly in his ear, and Michael could absolutely live with that.  For however long he was allowed to.  

Gavin took a deep breath and relaxed.  Michael put his arm around his waist and just sat there, holding him, as Gavin went on flipping slowly through his books.

 

_Night at the museum._

The moon was blood red that night as it rose, huge behind a veil of whirling sand.

Jack and Ryan had gone to the market and returned with supper and news.  The sand had choked off contact with areas further south, but despite the fantastic rumors, of desert winds and bleached bone and people swollen with scorpion stings, the British fort was not taking further precautions.  The local government, however, had taken note of the unrest and imposed a curfew.

Which was why they had come back with a basket of flatbread, two melons, and nothing else, begged off a nervous shopkeeper who had conducted the transaction through a half-shuttered window.

Griffon cut the melons expertly with a knife produced from the depths of her robes.  Grumbling somewhat, Gus handed over his storeroom key, and Lindsay bounded forth holding tinned sardines, coffee, tea, and grainy old chocolate.  They ate in a wide circle on the floor of the tower room, cross-legged, silent.

Geoff said, “I don’t like the look of that moon.”

Jack nodded.  “It looks. . .biblical.”

“Makes you wonder if the sun is ever gonna rise again,” Ryan said.  “If we’ll still be here in the morning.”

“Jesus Christ, Ryan,” said Geoff.

“Getting creepier by the day,” Jack said.

“Like a fine wine,” Ryan agreed, helping himself to another piece of melon.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Ray said.  He thought about it a bit and concluded, “I like it.”

Lindsay, who had been reading steadily all through dinner, closed her book with a muttered curse.  “I’m done,” she said.  “No more.  Pass the flask.”

“Any joy?” Griffon asked, obliging.

“No,” Lindsay said sadly.  “If you need help with boils, amulet repair, smallpox, venereal disease, adultery, insolvency, papyrus rot, or spells to prevent attacks by rampaging hippopotami, though, I’m your girl.”

Gavin set down his coffee (he was drinking out of a fancy-ass gilded teacup) and said, “Er, listen, you lot.  There’s somethin’ I—” he glanced at Michael “—er, we—haven’t told you.”

“Is this about you and Michael?” Geoff said, and went on, blandly, as Michael choked and sprayed the floor with coffee, “Because we already know about that.”

“And we think it’s wonderful,” Griffon said, as Geoff fell backwards wheezing with laughter.  “Of course, we’d like to know more about your intentions, Michael,” she added, and gently, ever so gently, her hand slipped closer to her thigh holster.

“Are you serious right now?” Michael said, and then, higher-pitched, voice rising into a squeak as Lindsay sighed and slapped a wad of bills into Ray’s outstretched hand, “Are you— _you put money on it?_ ”

“Sorry, bro,” Ray said, looking not in the least bit fucking sorry.  “If it helps, we were all rootin’ for ya, man.”

“Fuck you, no!”  

 

Geoff was still fucking laughing.

“I figured you’d wait until _after_ we averted the apocalypse,” Lindsay said, sighing again.  “Y’know, just before we rode off triumphantly into the sunset.”

“No way,” Ray said.  “You gotta let those feelings be heard before it’s too late, Lindsay.”

“I have it on good authority that the eve of the apocalypse is the best time for it,” Ryan said helpfully.  Michael hurled a sardine can at him.

“Oi!” Gavin said, banging the teacup and sloshing coffee everywhere.  “Listen—”  

The fucker wasn’t even embarrassed.  Michael was pretty sure his own face was about to _literally catch fire_.  

“—This is about the bloody sand crisis!”

“Suuuure it is,” Geoff said.

“Y’see,” Gavin said, “while we were down in the crypt, in the temple, Michael and I—”

“Please, Gavin, spare us the details,” Ryan said.  “I’ve heard and seen enough today.”

“Aww,” Lindsay said.

“Lindsay!” Michael sputtered.  "Gavin, just fuckin' spit it out."

“My recollection of events is a bit fuzzy at this moment in time,” Gavin said.  “What'd he say, Michael?  Somethin’ about dogs and dead priests?”

“You asshole,” Michael said, forcefully, “we've been over that.  That isn’t what I wanted you to mention.  What about the part where he put his hand in your fucking chest?”

"Michael!" Gavin exclaimed, scandalized.  Quickly, to Geoff and Griffon, Gavin said, "It wasn't as bad as all that.  He just—"

 

“Oh, it was bad," Michael shouted.  "He stuck his goddamn hand right into your chest!”

“Bloody hell, Michael, let a lad tell his own story!" Gavin said.

"You're telling it all _wrong_ , you little bastard," Michael snarled.

“Oh, no,” Lindsay said.  “Oh, _no_.”

“What?” Michael said, dreading the answer.

 

“I know what happened,” Lindsay said.  “And we’re in trouble.”


	9. serious trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't want to make this a twenty-chapter thing but it's starting to look like it might be. (the pacing is pretty fucked up right now. sorry about that.)

_Some swanky-ass Theban hotel, eight-thirty p.m. on the dot._

 

Michael held Gavin’s hand all the way to the hotel, in part because Gavin needed adult supervision at all times or he would get into some kind of mischief (see:  world-ending sand/scorpion crisis), but mostly because he fucking wanted to, okay.

 

And anyway, the secret was out.  Had been for a while, apparently.  Under different circumstances Michael would have wished for the sand to swallow him up, but since it was already trying to do just that, he kept his mouth shut.

 

Gavin’s was chattering nonstop, talking about this and that, exchanging theories with Lindsay and Ray—cheerful as ever, but Michael was pretty sure he wasn’t fooling anyone.  His hand was cold while they marched grimly through the swirling sand, his thumb rubbing an absent-minded circle against Michael’s knuckles.

 

Michael had lost his goggles the day before to a pissed off crocodile, and his eyes were half-closed against the wind and sand.  Somewhere between the reality of what was in front of his eyes and the panicked flickering thoughts jumping through his mind, he saw the jackal man, just a few steps ahead, staring, his big dark hand outstretched, ready to close around Michael’s heart.

 

He ground his teeth together until his jaw was sore and held Gavin’s hand tighter.

 

The sky was red and the lights of the hotel were redder as they staggered up its steps and into a cavernous marble-floored lobby.  

 

The concierge, with an expression of extreme concern, murmured that guests of the New Memnon typically dressed for dinner, and Geoff laughed in his face.  He also put everything on Gus’s tab.

 

The dining room was deserted, in any case:  no dainty colonels or whiskered ladies here to feel faint or queasy or righteously, bombastically outraged at the dirty, bloody, sandy sight of the Hunters and company.  There should have been music—an orchestra, a piano-player and some cheery ragtime, dancing—there wasn’t.  Silent as the grave, thought Michael, and then, _Jesus fucking Christ, Jones, shut up.  Shut the hell up._

 

They ate a hot supper gritty with the sand that was even then filtering in through the closed high windows.  But the whiskey and beer were infinitely drinkable, and by the time they finished dinner the general mood of the group had lifted considerably.  Michael would have gone out on a limb and called it ‘lighthearted.’

 

Gavin got a little sloshed—Michael couldn’t blame him, really, all things considered—and started reciting passages from _The Book of the Dead_ over “a squidgey puddin’,” as he called it.  Michael called it a pretty good replica of the three thousand year old pomegranate at Lindsay’s Institute, but according to the menu, it was, or had been, at some point in its existence, a slice of yellow cake.  Ray took one look at his plate and discreetly tipped his piece under the table.

 

“May my heart be with me,” Gavin was saying, in a high, giggling voice.  “May my heart be with me, or I shall not eat of the honeyed c-cakes of O-O- _Osiris_ —at the shore of the Lake of Flowers!”

 

Even more discreetly, Ray took Gavin’s glass away from him and handed it to Jack.

 

Lindsay had been drinking too, but she was always spouting crazy poetic Egyptian shit so it was hard to tell how far gone she was.  

 

Beaming at Gavin, she said, “May my mouth be given unto me that I may speak with it!  May the doors of heaven be opened up to me, and may Seb, who is prince of the gods—”

 

“Open my two eyes which are blinded!” Gavin crowed.

 

“May he cause me to stretch out my bound feet,” Lindsay said.  She was still smiling as she reached across the table to clasp Gavin’s hands.  “So you studied the Carnahan edition too, Gavin!  That’s great!”

 

“Damn bloody right I did,” Gavin said happily.  “Best one there is.”

 

Together they chorused, “And may Anubis make my legs strong, that I may st—oh, Michael!”

 

“Shit,” Michael said, snatching uselessly at the coffee cup which had slipped from his fingers at just the wrong fucking moment.  Was it his imagination or had the wind picked up outside?  Was it _howling_?  

 

He accepted the crumpled handkerchief that Jack drew from his breast pocket and mopped uselessly at his shirt.  If it was any consolation, the damn thing was so stained it was hard to tell where new stains were.

 

A mortified waiter tiptoed over to wipe up the rest of the mess.

 

“Sorry, Michael,” Lindsay said.  “Sorry!”

 

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Michael said.  “My hand just cramped up.  That’s all.”

 

“Are your legs strong, that you may stand upon them, O bearer of the medallion of gold?” asked Gavin, batting his eyes.  “Ouch!  Michael!”

 

The Hunters moved on to the bar and Griffon persuaded Lindsay to accompany them in their quest for additional doses of Scotch and brandy, before she went back to her research.  The concierge, clearly determined to fight to the death for protocol and genteel etiquette even in the face of an ancient doom, mumbled that the ladies were certainly entitled to a glass of ratafia or some other suitably female drink, and was once again laughed out of the room.

 

Ray, shrugging, said he was going to get a head start on some reading and wandered upstairs.

 

As Gavin started toddling towards Geoff, a little slack of jaw and vacant of eye, Michael caught him by the elbow.

 

“This isn’t a goddamn game, Gavin,” Michael said.

 

Gavin’s smile looked a little wobbly.  “I know that, Michael,” he replied.  “But I’ve got to play it like it is or I’ll have a screamin’ fit.”  He shook away from Michael’s taut fingers and went to Griffon, who put her arm around his shoulders.

 

Slowly, stiffly, Michael dragged himself upstairs too.

 

 

_Earlier that day, in the tower, swathed in mystery and darkness and a fuckton of foreboding._

 

“We’re in trouble,” Lindsay said.  “Well, I mean, we’re in more trouble.”

 

Michael swung around to face her, and she met his eyes unhappily.  

 

“What did Gavin do?” he said.

 

“Oi!” Gavin said.  “Why’s it always something I did?”

 

“Shut up, Gavin!” said Michael, and Geoff, and Jack or possibly Ryan.

 

“I’m afraid it _was_ something you did, Gavin,” Lindsay said.  “It was the box.”

 

“Ah,” said Gus sagely.  “I see what you mean.”

 

“We don’t,” Ryan said.  “Enlighten us.”

 

“Well—” Lindsay began, and stopped.  “Sorry,” she said.  “I’m just, um, trying to figure out the best way to tell you.”

 

“Let me try,” Gus said.  He turned to Gavin.  “There’s really no better way to put this,” he said.  “You’re fucked.”

 

“I beg your pardon?” Gavin said, as Geoff said, “Gus, there were, like, five hundred better ways to put that.”

 

“What the fuck do you mean, Gavin’s fucked?” Michael demanded.

 

Lindsay was looking at him with something like an apology in her eyes.   

 

“You’re gonna have to explain this to me,” Michael said, and his voice rose and rose until he was just about shouting.  “I’m the one getting haunted by a goddamn’ jackal-faced asshole!  That fucker has his little rock eye on me, damn it.”

 

“That’s a separate issue,” Gus said, infuriatingly.

 

“Oh, great.  Great.  Thanks for _clearing that up_.”

 

“Michael,” Lindsay said, finally, and Michael let out a long, hissing breath.  “Gus is right.  There’s something after Gavin.  The empty sarcophagus—it belonged to a human being, once.  He isn’t human anymore, of course.”

 

“The box,” Gavin said.  “That sodding box.”

 

“Yeah,” Lindsay said, briskly.  “The box.  We don’t have it anymore, so we’re taking your word about the whole ‘Deathy death death thing’—”

 

Gavin coughed.  “I may have, uh, paraphrased somewhat.”

 

“—but I understand now.  I’ve read about this.  The curse of the immortal soul.  You destroy the physical container, the body, and you remove the heart instead of leaving it in the chest cavity.  You take it away.  You _hide_ it so that it can't be weighed.  They essentially doomed his _ka_ to wander the sands for all eternity.  But—" 

 

"But?" Michael said.

 

"Well," Lindsay said, "it is written that if the bindings keeping the cursed heart hidden fail or are broken, the cursed one will regain their power and seek revenge on the whole of Egypt.”  She waved a hand at the window.  “As you can see.”

 

There was a shocked, appalled silence.

 

Then Ray said, “Pro tip—if you’re gonna curse someone, try to use a curse without an expiration date.”

 

“Well, there was no guarantee it wouldn’t have lasted forever, if it lay undisturbed,” Lindsay argued.

 

“ 'Undisturbed.' ” Ray scoffed. "They should've buried it a little fuckin' deeper."

 

Michael had listened to Lindsay’s explanation biting the inside of his cheek, fists clenched.  Now he said, “So what are you saying?  This— _thing_ —it’s after Gavin?  Why?”

 

“This is just a theory,” Lindsay said, “but I think it’s after his heart.  It needs one, after all.  And he was the one who opened the box.”

 

“I was right there with him,” Michael said.  “I was in the crypt with him too.  I fucking shot that withered son of a bitch.  Why isn’t my heart on the menu too?  Or, hell, all of our hearts?”

 

“I mean, technically, it is going to kill us all unless we can figure out a way to neutralize it,” Ryan pointed out. “Gavin’s just the first course.”

 

“Ryan,” Geoff said.  “You’re not helping.”

 

“Sorry.”  Maybe it was just a personality quirk that Ryan’s apologies never really sounded sincere.

 

“He said it himself,” Lindsay said.  “I mean, he wrote it.  In his sarcophagus.  He will become the Walker, the Revenant.  He will become a plague upon the earth and bring ruin to the Black Lands.”

 

To Michael, maybe to prevent him from causing an unspecified amount of property damage, Gus explained, “Egypt is the fertile Black Land, _kemet_.  The desert is the barren Red Land, _deshret_.  This asshole wants to paint the town red.”

 

“Okay, fine, but how do ‘the Black Lands’ translate to _Gavin_?” Geoff warbled.  “That doesn’t make much sense.”

 

“Were you expecting it to?” Jack said.

 

“Gavin, unfortunately, laid his hands on the heart,” Lindsay said.  “Which means he transgressed against the dead man’s _ka_.  That puts him at number one on the revenge list—since I assume everyone else died a little while ago.”

 

Geoff sighed.  "Can't say I'm surprised."

 

In Michael’s life, there had been timely eclipses and convenient secret passages.  There had been hoaxes.  There had been buildings that could be torched, journalists who couldn’t be bought and DAs who could.  Bad guys who learned pretty fuckin’ quick to listen to reason after Michael blasted a couple of holes in the walls.  There had been running, too.  A lot of running.  

 

In other traditions there were bodies to stake, silver bullets to shoot.  You could piss holy water everywhere and things would generally turn out okay.  

 

This, though—this was pure, disembodied malice.  A body long disintegrated; a heart already turned to dust.  A form that no gun could intimidate or kill—a rising tide of red sand.  And nightmares against which they were all powerless.

 

Michael said, “Jesus Christ, what do we _do_ , Lindsay?”

 

“Bring me a fuckin’ pitcherful of coffee,” Lindsay said, “and ask me again when I finish drinking it.”

 

 

_Ahhh._

 

The pipes groaned and hissed and spat out so much sand and grit into the bathtub that Michael felt like he was at the fucking seashore.  But it was still the first hot bath he’d had in weeks and he was gonna soak ’n’ wallow until the clock struck twelve and he turned into a goddamn prune.  If the jackal man was still around Michael sure hoped he was enjoying the view.  

 

“This is a hell of a mess we’re in,” he said.

 

From the armchair that he had dragged up to the other side of the bathroom door, Ray said, “Yeah, tell me about it.”

 

Slowly, Michael said, “Maybe you should write home.”

 

“I got nothin’ but the clothes on my back,” Ray said.  “My mama already knows she’ll be inheriting you if I should meet a cruel and untimely decease.”

 

“I’m serious, Ray.”  Michael splashed some water around, watched the sand settle back to the bottom.  “We’ve never been in so much shit before.”

 

“Eh, I can think of a couple of instances,” Ray said.  “Anyway, who was it who decided he was gonna go back to the magic city to challenge an ancient Egyptian god of death?”  He chuckled.  “I mean, really.”

 

“I’m fucked either way,” Michael said.  “Doesn’t mean I gotta bring you down with me.”  He looked at his knees, red and knobbly and busted to hell and back.  “You—you can live with the dreams.  You lived with them just fine while we were in Germany.”

 

There was a noise of rustling pages.  Then Ray said, not laughing anymore, “Michael.  It may not be by blood, but you’re my brother in this life and the next.  You know that.”

 

Michael swallowed.  “Yeah.”

 

Ray continued, “Good.  So you understand that I sure as hell am not gonna leave you here to do some damn’ foolish thing all by yourself.”  He sighed.  “ ’Sides, we both know Mama would kill me if I came home without you.”

 

Michael had to crack a smile at that.  “Yeah, she would.”

 

“I hope you’re not gonna try to tell the Hunters to bail, too.”

 

“It’d be a waste of breath.”

 

“Exactly.”  More rustling.  “It’s personal for them now, anyway.  Their baby boy’s in danger.”

 

“The entire world is in danger,” Michael said, stubborn.

 

“You know they don’t give a shit about that,” Ray said.  “Gold, glory, and Gavin, that’s the name of their game.”  He paused.  “They’re a good group,” he said.

 

“Yeah.”  Michael used to wonder what kind of fire had forged that kind of fierce loyalty, but now he was pretty sure whatever it was had involved multiple rescue missions where the one and only objective was ‘For fuck’s sake just keep Gavin alive.’

 

“You still thinkin’ about goin’ solo, after this?”

 

“Yeah,” Michael said.  “But I might take a break for a while.  I mean, damn.  I can’t keep this up.  A guy can only put his life on the line so many times before he fucks it up for good.”  

 

“Maybe we should team up with ’em,” Ray said.  “I mean, on a more permanent basis.”

 

“We get into enough trouble on our own without being tangled up in someone else’s messes,” Michael said.  But he had been thinking about it, and he knew Ray knew that.  

 

Maybe this was human instinct—to find comfort with others of your kind, no matter how prickly or weapon-filled your first encounter.  Apocalypse or not, you slept easier at night knowing that people like Lindsay and Griffon and Ryan were on your side.  

 

It was people like Gavin who kept you up into the wee hours.  And not in a fun way.  Not usually.

 

And they were definitely a packaged deal.  With Gavin came the Hunters.  With the Hunters came Gavin.

 

Michael wasn’t sure how he felt about that, or about the part of him that was thinking, _Fuck yes, I'll take it._

 

He opened his mouth to reply but had to close it again, because this, of course, was when the screaming started.

 

 

_11:35 p.m. at the New Memnon, Thebes, Egypt.  An hour when respectable people were in bed but Michael Jones was not because he was tripping down the goddamn stairs with his goddamn pants coming down around his goddamn ankles._

 

"Can we have just one fucking moment of peace in this fucking country before something tries to fucking kill us," Michael yelled, as they raced downstairs.  "Fuck!"

 

Ray tossed him a spare pistol.  They leapt over the bannister.

 

It was the concierge who was screaming, and he screamed louder as Ray and Michael came barreling towards him in all their heavily armed glory.

 

“Run, you stupid motherfucker!” Michael yelled at him.  He didn’t wait to see if the guy took his advice.  He and Ray pelted on in the direction of the bar.

 

Michael could hear glasses breaking, someone—Geoff?—whooping, and a hell of a lot of gunshots.  And behind that he could hear the sand.

 

“Shit, shit, shit,” he said.  

 

“Sand, sand, sand,” Ray said.

 

They burst out into the courtyard, and the air hit Michael’s throat and eyes in a wave of heat and grit.

 

Ray leveled his gun at an indistinct shape coming towards them in the haze, then lowered it as the shape grew clearer and became Ryan.  He was walking along, calm as you please, just an average fella out for a pleasant evening stroll—with a rifle on his back and a knife in each hand.  Michael was pretty sure he had seen those knives before—on their dinner table.

 

“What the hell’re those for?” Ray said.  “It’s a sandstorm, not a loaf of bread.”

 

“Desperate times?” Ryan said, throwing one up in an impressive sparkling arc and catching it again.

 

Ray raised an eyebrow.  “Fair enough.”  

 

“Want one?” Ryan said.  He nodded at his belt.  “I’ve got more.”

 

“Uh, no thanks.”

 

“Do we have a plan?” Ryan asked.  Absurdly, Michael found that he and Ray had slowed to match Ryan’s pace and they were all just fucking strolling now.  Strolling into danger, armed with a couple of pistols and an assortment of unwashed cutlery.  Amazing.  Incredible.

 

“Find the thing, shoot the thing?” Ray suggested.

 

“I thought you said it was impervious to bullets,” Ryan said.  “Hence, you know.”  He jiggled a knife.

 

“Well, if you got any better ideas I’m open to ’em,” Michael said, and then they were kicking open the double-doors—

 

“Jesus F. Christ, what took you so long?” Geoff shouted.

 

Every glass in the bar was broken.  The Hunters had scattered; only Geoff was visible, reeling back against the bar—and then the sand was even more like a hive of giant, pissed off hornets as it reared up and came howling towards them.  Ryan made a noise of strangled amazement, Ray swore, Michael didn’t stop swearing, and they all dove for cover.  

 

Michael found himself behind a flimsy-ass wooden chair, straining to hear any sound of garbled British panic over the reverberating sand.  

 

He didn’t hear anything.  Instead—

 

**So, dog of Anapa.**

 

“Oh, shit,” Michael said.

 

It was there, suddenly, amid the dissipating sand, standing in the middle of the wreckage.  The death’s head loomed over them.  Its shadowy body was different now, though—it looked solid.  It looked like a man, now, tall and powerful, a black sculpture that sucked away the light.  It smiled:  grinning, jagged darkness.

 

“ _Again you seek to thwart me_ ,” it said.  The sound reverberated in the hollows of Michael’s chest, seemed to burn his ears.  “ _It is futile_.”

 

“Stay back!” Michael shouted, but too little, too late—

 

Jack rushed the thing and was backhanded into the wall for his troubles.

 

“Dog of Anapa,” the creature continued, staring at Michael with burning eyes.  “Will you beg for your life as well as his?  Or will you flee with your tail between your legs?”

 

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” Michael snarled.  “Come and get me, bitch.”

 

Unfortunately, it obliged, and Michael only had time to shoot once and yell “Holy fucking shit!” before the black shadow hands closed tight around his collar and dragged him up into the air.

 

“I will wither your heart,” the thing said, breathing dead air on his face.  Michael choked and kicked and cursed.  He landed a couple of blows on the thing’s head with the butt of his pistol, but he might as well have been _caressing_ the fucker’s face for all the good it did.

 

Dimly, through the buzzing in his ears, he heard Geoff shouting.  “That’s it!  Atta boy, Jones!  Keep him busy!”

 

“No—problem,” Michael gasped.  “Ray.  Little—help here—please—”

 

“Oh god, oh man,” Ray said, and broke a chair against the thing’s back.  

 

Nothing.

 

“God—damn it—”  The room was going dark and blotchy.  “ _Ray!_ ”

 

“Patience is a virtue, Michael—”  

 

A hazy silver light blitzed through the air, and then the thing screamed, a sound of pure fury and malice, and threw Michael down.  

 

He landed heavily on his bad shoulder, gagging, pain sparking through his side.  Hands took him and pulled him to safety.  Someone—Griffon, probably—opened fire.

 

The creature was howling, its long hands clamped to its face.  The bullets knocked it back a few feet and as it staggered, Michael saw a steak knife stuck in its left eye socket.

 

Ray was holding a butter knife and a fragment of chair, looking stunned.

 

“Huh,” he said.

 

“Hah!” Ryan said.

 

“This asshole is immortal as dicks!” said Geoff.  He had managed to shimmy his way around the creature and the flying bullets; he was beside Michael now, kneeling, clutching his revolver and looking scandalized.

 

“Where’s Gavin?” Michael said.

 

“Behind the bar, with Griffon,” Geoff said.  “You got here just in time.  Fuckin’ thing was about to sniff him out.”

 

The gunfire continued, _rattatat tat tat!_ behind them.  

 

“Lindsay,” Michael said, trying to breathe more normally and less like he was dying.  “What about Lindsay—”

 

“Reinforcements,” Geoff said.  

 

“Gus?  The proper authorities?”  Michael goggled at him.  “The Brits?  No way.”

 

Geoff winced.  “Uh, not exactly.”

 

Griffon screamed then, and the Gatling sputtered and wheezed, and they both whipped around in time to see sand crash over the bar in a deadly, humming wave—

 

It never broke, though.  Griffon fell back and Gavin stood up slowly, sand cascading harmlessly around him and his right hand, outstretched with its palm facing the creature.  Cradled in the crook of one arm was a book.  He was reading from it.  He was _chanting_.

 

His eyes were huge in his face, and he was sweating.  He was speaking quietly, breath whistling out between dry lips.

 

The thing spoke to him:   **Why do you resist?**

 

Gavin’s voice faltered, and he almost let the book drop.  Then he looked the thing in its burning purple eyes and said, “Don’t you even think about movin’, ya jammy mugget,” and started chanting again.  

 

“What the—what the fuck—”  Michael was going pop-eyed and it wasn’t because he’d just almost had the life choked outta him by a seven foot tall ancient Egyptian god of death.  “Geoff, what the fuck—”

 

“Yeah, Gavin!” Geoff was cheering.  “Get him!”

 

It didn’t look like Gavin was doing any getting.  The creature was just standing there, watching him as if fascinated.  Michael had a horrible feeling that the thing was sizing him up, like a boa constrictor before a meal.

 

Gavin paused to gulp down a breath, and the creature struck.  Blurring with the speed of its movement it took two giant steps towards the bar and nabbed him, lifting him easily into the air.  The book fell; more glasses shattered.  Gavin yelped, then gave a low, involuntary cry as his head smashed into the low ceiling.

 

“Gavin!”  

 

He wasn’t chanting now—he was making little noises of intense pain and distress.  And then, barely audible, head lolling, he said, “M-Michael!”

 

“Oh, it is _on_ ,” Michael growled, scrambling to his feet.  “C’mere, you fuck—”

 

He kicked the thing’s legs out from under it, and shoved Gavin unceremoniously out of the way as they both fell.  The thing was still down, and Michael went to kick it again, but it put its shadowy hands on his leg and stared at him, eyes alight, and suddenly Michael was flying through the air—

 

Stars exploded behind his eyes as he hit the wall hard and slid down beside Jack.  He lay there paralyzed, feeling like his head had just detached from his body and started floating away.

 

 **Enough** , the creature said, striding toward him with purpose.  

 

As it came nearer Michael saw the shadow begin to dissipate.  The grotesque body was melting.  Groaning, cheek pressed to the dirty tile, Michael saw bare brown feet and jeweled ankles step slowly toward him.

 

He tried to raise himself but failed and slumped back down.  His vision was really swimming now.  That taste in his mouth was probably blood.  Had he bitten his tongue?  Jesus fuck, was he bleeding internally?  Fuck fuck fuck—

 

Jack, arm shaking, fired six shots into the thing’s chest, and grunted as it grabbed him by the shirt and tossed him, fucking tossed him away like he was a goddamn toy.  He rolled and rolled and lay still.

 

 **Meddlesome dog** , the creature said.   **You will die now.**

 

“Yeah, go fuck yourself,” Michael rasped.  He tried to get up again.  If these were gonna be his last moments on earth then he was sure as hell gonna fucking spend them on his feet—

 

“ _Hey, asshole!_ ” shouted Lindsay.  Michael rolled his eyes frantically toward the sound of her voice.  

 

She was standing in the doorway, hair streaming out around her face, breathing hard.  There was murder in her eyes—and a fat as fuck orange cat in her arms.

 

“Look what I got!” Lindsay said, smirking, and brandished the cat.

 

For a frozen moment, thing and cat stared at each other.

 

Then—

 

The cat hissed.

 

The thing _wailed_.  Michael stared as the bare feet stumbled back; a thick, suffocating storm of sand hurtled into the room, drawing around the creature like a humming, living cloak.  The whole damn circus screamed out into night.

 

In the deafening silence that followed, the last, unbroken glass teetered off its shelf and burst on the floor.

 

“ _Good_ kitty,” Michael managed, and then he followed Jack’s example and passed the fuck out.


	10. Gavin, NO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for your kind comments on the latest chapters! I am delighted that people are enjoying this crazy story. writing it continues to be a fuckin’ blast.
> 
> this chapter actually involved a small amount of research. I put those notes at the end, as they are a teensy bit spoilery.

“Holy fucking shit!” Michael said, opening his eyes.  

 

He had been expecting shattered glass and pandemonium and copious amounts of blood—instead he got an eyeful of hideous paisley wallpaper.  He’d been set down in an armchair in Griffon’s room.  

 

The cat was sitting on his lap, purring.  

 

A chair scraped, and Michael turned his head, wincing.  

 

Lindsay was sitting at the table, drinking coffee by a pile of books.  She had piled up her hair on top of her head again, but it was already starting to escape its confines.  

 

She was watching Michael with a soft triumphant look on her face.  He smiled at her and she smiled back.

 

“Before you ask,” she said, “Gavin’s fine.  Just shaken up.”

 

“And Jack?”

 

“Also fine.  Griffon’s trying to figure out if he cracked a rib.  Don’t worry, Michael.  Everyone’s okay.”

 

“Good.”  The cat stared into his eyes and gave a long, slow green blink.  “Hey, buddy,” Michael said.

 

Lindsay’s smile widened.  “Aw, he likes you.”

 

“Is this a magic cat?” Michael said, letting the cat sniff his fingers.  “Is this your cat?  Do you have a magic cat, Lindsay?”

 

Lindsay laughed.  “He’s just an ordinary housecat, Michael.  A little overfed, maybe.  His name is Joe—he belongs to the Institute.”  She grimaced.  “Had a hell of a time finding him.  He likes to sleep in the display cases.  No idea how he manages to get in ’em.  Maybe he _is_ a magic cat.  Are you a magic kitty, Joe?  Are you?”

 

“When Geoff said you were getting reinforcements, I thought he meant soldiers.”

 

“Well, from an ancient Egyptian point of view, Joe’s descended from a long and distinguished line of warriors,” Lindsay said.

 

Michael scritched Joe under the chin.  “This little guy?  Come again?”

 

“That’s right,” Lindsay said proudly.

 

“You’re going to have to walk me through this one,” Michael said.  “A cat?  Seriously?  The thing’s afraid of _cats_?”

 

“Cats are great, Michael Jones,” Lindsay said, chiding.  “They guard against pestilence.  They uphold the law of Amun-Ra, king of the gods.  They look so gosh darn cute.”  

 

“All he did was puff up and hiss.”

 

“That’s all he needed to do,” Lindsay said.  “Cats are the living embodiment of the goddess Bastet, Michael.  The ancient Egyptians worshipped her, and they worshipped cats.”  She grinned.  “My kind of people.

 

“Bastet, besides being a guardian and a warrior goddess, is a goddess of ointment.  It doesn’t sound all that impressive, I grant you, but remember, ointment places a key role in the embalming process.  If Anubis is the embalmer, then Bastet is the anointer of corpses.”  She made a short, violent chopping motion over one of the books.  “What I mean is, to a deathless soul who seeks to violate Maat, Bastet represents retribution.”

 

Michael frowned at her.  Joe the Cat butted his hand.  

 

“Yeah, you lost me.”

 

“Bastet has the power to force souls back into the realm of death.  Her gaze is reflected in the eyes of all cats, according to Egyptian lore—they protect against your garden variety household pests and against evil spirits.  That’s why he ran away.”  Sheepish now, she admitted, “I was two sheets to the wind when I came up with it.  Didn’t think it was really gonna work.  But we were in trouble.”

 

“Worked a hell of a lot better than a bullet,” Michael said.  “Glad you thought of it.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

“So is he dead?”

 

Her smile faded.  “Um.”

 

“Fuck.”

 

“He’s not dead,” Lindsay said.  “I mean, he _is_ dead.  However, he remains _un_ dead.  And out for our blood.”

 

“God damn it.”

 

“There _is_ good news, Michael,” Lindsay said.  “He ran from Joe.  That means he’s still weak.”

 

Gingerly, Michael touched his throat, where the skin had been gouged into pulpy bruises.  “Didn’t seem like it t’me,” he said.  He patted Joe.  “Guess you’re tougher than me, buddy.”

 

“It’s not like Joe is actually the living embodiment of an ancient goddess,” Lindsay said.  “That’d be kind of strange.”

 

“Lindsay, considering the kind of fucked up shit that’s been happening, Ray could run in here wearing a tuxedo and a top hat and tell me this cat is the reincarnation of James A. Garfield, and I wouldn’t bat an eye.”

 

“Point,” Lindsay conceded.  She scooted her chair closer.  “Anyway, what I mean is, now we know he’s superstitious.  We can use that against him.”

 

“Yeah,” Michael said.  “Let’s set up ladders in every doorway and start a cat zoo in the lobby.  I’m _kidding_ , Lindsay.  Jesus.”

 

Lindsay’s eyes, gazing out at a glorious future bulging with cats, refocused.  “Oh.”

 

“He’ll be back,” Michael said.  “This is just a temporary setback.”

 

“I know,” Lindsay said.  “I suggested that we go back to the Institute.”

 

“Why?  Did Gus figure something out?”

 

“No,” Lindsay said.  “At least, he hasn’t sent any messages yet.  I just—well, personally, since I spent a considerable amount of time in that tower and would know best—it’s highly defensible.”

 

“Anywhere’s defensible if you’ve got Griffon,” Michael pointed out.

 

“True enough,” Lindsay said.  “She’s no match against a sandstorm, though.”

 

“None of us is,” Michael said.  “Except—”  He looked at the cat in his lap.  It looked back with its slitted yellow-green eyes, blinked again, sleepily, then yawned, showing a mouth of sharp teeth.  “Lindsay, I don’t know what’s going on anymore.  Magic and reality, they’re all blending together.  Gods and people.”

 

He looked up again as Lindsay laid a hand on his.  

 

“I know, Michael,” she said.  “The only explanation I can think of is the sacred nature of the ground we’re standing on.  Three thousand years of worship and sacrifice and pure, powerful belief.  What’s just dusty old theory in a book back home is reality here.”

 

Michael shook his head.  “Anywhere is hallowed ground if you go back far enough.  The States—they’re alive with it.  All those traditions.  All that bloodshed.”

 

“Well, then,” Lindsay said, sounding really goddamn reasonable, “doesn’t that mean that there’s always been magic—everywhere?”

 

“Gavin stopped the sand,” Michael blurted.  “He chanted something and the sand just—fell out of the air.”

 

“I’m not surprised,” Lindsay said.  “He’s read a lot on the subject.”

 

“Maybe it was just a coincidence, maybe the Sandman was the one in control, but—”   _I saw the light in his eyes._  

 

He turned to her, stared at her, at the hand she was touching him with.  “Lindsay, can _you_ —?”

 

Lindsay shrugged.  “I’m a cursebreaker,” she said.  “I can read the old spells.  I used to read them over our artifacts, just to be safe.  Placate forgotten souls.  Undo the knots of resentment and malice and sadness.  The higher-ups didn’t see the point, so they let me go.  But these old spells have power.  I can feel it on my lips when I recite them.”  

 

She looked thoughtful, then wondering, as she raised her palms to the light and scrutinized them.  “I thought it was the land, but—but maybe it’s _me_.”

  
  
  


_Later._

 

“My poor little Michael,” Gavin crooned, cradling his poor little Michael’s poor little head to his breast.  “Wounded in the line of duty!”

 

“Give it a rest, will ya?” Michael grumbled.

 

“Just expressin’ my gratitude,” Gavin said.

 

Michael endured another ten seconds of this particular brand of gratitude before shrugging Gavin off.  “Well, express it some other way.  And to Lindsay.  She saved the day, after all.”

 

“Thank you, Lindsay!” Gavin exclaimed.  He made as if to cradle her head to his chest too, but she backed away and offered up Joe the Cat instead.  

 

“No, no,” she said.  “Joe’s the real hero.”

 

“Joe!” Gavin said, delighted, and gathered the cat up in his arms.  Joe was equally unimpressed with this level of affection and, squirming free, hopped to the ground with an expression of utmost disdain.

 

“Come on, guys, focus,” Geoff said, but he was looking at Gavin as he spoke.  “Idle hands are the devil's playdicks. We got shit to do.  Evil to defeat.  Treasure to collect.  Chop, chop.”

 

“All right, all right,” Gavin said, then, “Budge up, love,” as he plunked down next to Michael in the armchair.

 

Michael budged, but Gavin still ended up more or less perched on his lap, tangling their legs together.  

 

He was doing it on purpose, Michael thought.  He ignored the brightly innocent smile Gavin sent his way and looked up at the makeshift council of war.

 

The Hunters looked tired and pissed off.  They were covered in scum and debris; their clothes were ragged.  There was blood in Geoff’s beard.  Jack was holding himself carefully—ribs not broken but definitely bruised.  Their faces and arms looked raw, even skinned.

 

Mostly, though, they looked so damn out of place, standing around a tiny table in the middle of a room plastered with peeling, sickly-looking lavender paisley.  

 

Lindsay said, briskly, “We should go back to the Institute.  I know the building inside out.  The tower is the highest point.  We can barricade the doors.”

 

“I see your reasoning,” Griffon said, “and I realize Gus’s knowledge will be helpful, but I disagree.  That thing is going to attack us.  If we lock ourselves in a tower, we’ll turn ourselves into fish in a barrel.”

 

“Why not stay here?” Jack said.  “At least we’ll have access to food and water.”

 

But Geoff was shaking his head.  “No way, man,” he said.  “We trashed the place.  We gotta check out, pronto.”

 

“We were fighting for our lives,” Jack said.  “The monster trashed the place.”

 

“I don’t think the prison guards are going to buy a story about an ancient sand demon or god or whatever the fuck just blitzin’ into a bar and tryin’ to kill us, Jack,” Geoff said.

 

“It’s the _apocalypse_ ,” Jack said.  “The Nile has turned to mud!  People have been stripped to the bone by sand!”

 

“They’re blaming the weather,” Geoff said.  “And the concierge has his head so far up his ass he can’t tell whether the sun is shining or not.  He'll summon the _gendarmes_. We can’t stay here.”

 

Lindsay spread her hands wide.  “What other choice do we have, besides the Institute?  I have to take Joe back.  We might as well go with him.”

 

Suddenly, Gavin spoke.  “There is another option,” he said.

 

“Oh, this oughta be good,” Michael muttered.  Gavin sent him an affronted look.

 

“Go on, baby,” Griffon said.  “We’re listening.”

 

“We could go back to the city.”

 

He was met with protest, most loudly from Jack and Ryan, whose voices blended together in mutual outrage.  

 

“Are you ser—”

 

“More scorpions than there have ever been in—”

 

“Fucking underground labyrinth—”

 

Michael was gaping.  He picked his jaw up off the floor and said, “You’re fuckin’ kidding.  You’re kidding, right?  Jesus Christ, Gavin, you’re insane.”

 

Gavin scowled.  “I am not, Michael Jones!  I’ve been thinkin’ about it, long and hard—”

 

“That’s what she said,” said Ray.

 

“—and I think it makes a lot of bloody sense, all right?”

 

“You’re a moron,” Michael started to snarl, but he trailed off as Geoff held up a hand.

 

“Let him speak his piece,” Geoff said.  “I admit it sounds batshit crazy, but what the fuck.  We’re out of ideas.”

 

“Thank you, Geoffrey,” Gavin said primly.  He leapt out of the armchair, out of the reach of Michael’s restraining arm.  “The way I see it, ladies, lads, and gents, our friendly Sandman was buried in Uten Sakhal for a reason.  We ran off before we could properly study the place.  I say we go back, poke around some more.”

 

“Okay, so we go back, we look around,” Michael said.  “And then what?  The fucker descends on us while we’re squinting at a piece of statue and wipes us off the face of the earth!  It’s his goddamn city!”

 

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that, Michael,” Gavin said.  “He vacated it pretty bloody quickly.”

 

“He had shit to do,” Michael said.  “People to kill.  Countries to destroy.”

 

Un-fucking-believably, Lindsay said, “Oh my god, Gavin—I think you may be on to something.”

 

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Michael said, slumping back in the armchair.

 

“It’s been bugging—er, bothering—me too,” Lindsay said.  “Sand, scorpions—those aren’t the attributes of Anubis.”

 

“Exactly!” Gavin said.

 

“If he were a creature of Anubis, or even Anubis himself,” Lindsay continued, “then he wouldn’t be afraid of cats, either.  Even if Bastet is said to have been his mother in some Old Kingdom traditions.”

 

“All right.  Okay.  I’ll bite.  Let’s say, hypothetically, that this guy isn’t the jackal man.  Then what the hell are we dealing with?” Michael demanded.

 

“No idea,” Gavin said cheerfully.  “Let’s go back to the city and find out, shall we?”

 

Helplessly, Michael looked at Geoff.  

 

Geoff shrugged.

  
  
  


_Dawn._

 

“No,” Gus said.  “No, no, no, and hell no.  Don’t pass go.  Do not collect.  Don’t even go to jail.  Just get the fuck out.”

 

In place of the usual giant encyclopedias, he was hefting a bronze statuette and a paper weight.

 

Geoff reassured Michael, in an undertone, that threats of imminent violence were just Gus’s way of saying hello.  Really.  He was a sweet guy.   _Really_.

 

“’Morning, Gus,” Griffon said, and they all repeated it at various volumes.  They filed one by one into the study, which looked like it had been hit by a sandstorm of its own in the night.

 

“Out!” Gus yelled, taking a swing with the paper weight.

 

Geoff ducked it, easily.  “Had breakfast yet, Gus?”

 

“I haven’t slept for three days thanks to you fucks,” Gus snapped, with a look in his bloodshot eyes that suggested that the only tears he would be shedding if they suddenly dropped dead would be tears of joy.  Then he subsided and said, grudgingly, “I see Gavin’s still alive.”

 

“For now,” Michael groused, as Gavin said, “Bein’ alive is absolutely tippity toppers, Gus!”

 

“Sure,” Gus said, eyeing him.  “So you must have done something right.”

 

“All thanks to Joe,” Geoff said, “and some quick thinkin’ on Lindsay’s part.”

 

“Aw, shucks,” Lindsay said.  Joe the Cat wriggled happily in her arms.

 

“He’ll be back, though,” Gus said.  “He won’t stop until the job is done.”

 

“Yeah,” Michael said.  “We know.”

 

“Say—”  Jack perked up.  “You ever think, well, maybe we should just ship Gavin across the Atlantic?”

 

“Oi!” Gavin said.  “Jack, you don’t have an anus’s chance in hell of beatin’ this thing without me!”

 

Jack ignored him.  “If the thing can’t get Gavin then it can’t resurrect itself, right?  That’s the deal, isn’t it?  I mean, the living sand thing is powerful, but even a sandstorm can’t cross the whole goddamn ocean.  Right?”

 

Gus spun around and started digging through the shit on his desk, dropping books into stacks on the ground and swiping entire stacks of paper into the air.  At length he straightened holding a single blue telegram.

 

“Dunkelman sent this,” he said shortly.  

 

The message was dated to two days ago and read like a fever dream.

 

_Gus Yes it’s pretty bad here STOP Shipping at a standstill STOP Might be stranded STOP Are you going to fix this or do we have to send for the big guns QUERY Tell me what you’re dune STOP I’m arid on the side of caution STOP You know I don’t trust sand STOP It’s way too shifty STOP Sorry if my humor’s a little dry STOP But there’s a grain of truth in what I say STOP Love Barbara FULL STOP_

“What the fuck?” Michael said.

 

“That’s Barbara for ya,” Gavin said.  “Shifty.  Heh.”

 

“Barbara’s in Crete with the rest of the gang,” Gus said to Geoff and Griffon.  “The Minoan site.  I sent some follow-up questions but she didn’t reply.  My guess is they’re cut off, just like she feared.”

 

“Barb’ll be okay,” Geoff said.  “She’s a smart cookie.”

 

“She certainly isn’t half-baked,” Gavin said.  “Ouch!  Michael!  Have you no appreciation for good humor?”

 

Michael leaned up to whisper furiously in his ear:  “I will murder you in your sleep.”

 

Gavin murmured, “It'll be a joy to die in your arms, my little Michael.   _Ow!_ ”

 

“She’ll be okay until the world ends,” Gus said darkly.  “My point is, it’s already crossed the Mediterranean, Jack.  This shit is spreading fast.”

 

“Just throwing it out there,” Jack said, sighing.  He seemed disappointed that they wouldn’t be able to save the world without Gavin constantly getting underfoot.  Michael totally understood.  Fucking Christ, did he ever understand.  He shot Jack a sympathetic look.

 

“Gus,” Gavin said, with a winsome smile, “I have a _plan_.”

 

Gus seemed torn between making a witheringly sarcastic remark and braining himself with the paper weight.  He settled for, “Oh yeah?” in a slightly strangled voice.

 

“It may sound completely mental,” Gavin cautioned, “but I promise you it’s only ever so slightly mental.”  He took a deep breath.  “I want to go back to Uten Sakhal.”

 

Gus was quiet, waiting.  His fingers flexed around the paper weight.

 

“ _Because_ ,” Gavin said, “I think there’s some vital information we’ve all missed.  And I don’t blame us.  Not one smidge.  But the answers are out there, Gus!  Out there in the sand!”

 

Gus finally put both statuette and weight down and folded his arms.  “What makes you think another trek into the desert is going to help?”

 

“I just have a feelin’, ’s all,” Gavin said stubbornly.

 

“It’s better than sitting and waiting for the thing to come to us,” Griffon said.  “Last night was a shitshow.”  She frowned.  “I don’t like feeling helpless.”

 

“We ran away,” Geoff said, “we lived, and now we’re going back to fight another day.”

 

“I’ll follow you, Geoff,” Jack said.  “Although it’s against my better judgement.”  

 

“Likewise,” Ryan said.

 

“This thing’s in Crete already and it’s only been a week,” Gus said.  “It’s gonna take you four days to get out there, four days to get back, plus at least seven days at the site.  That is, if your camels don’t croak.  If you even survive the journey.  That’s too late.”

 

“We might not have to take camels,” Ray said.  “Seem to have an unlucky track record with ’em, anyway.”

 

Gus whirled on him.  “Are you suggesting you want to do this on foot?  You have a literal deadline, Narvaez.”

 

“Whoa, whoa.”  Ray held up his hands.  “That’s not what I meant.  This is Thebes, isn’t it?”

 

“You’re sure as fuck not in Kansas anymore,” Gus snapped.

 

“All I’m saying,” Ray said, calmly, “is that there’s an airfield nearby.  Am I right?”

  
  


 

_He was right.  Early afternoon.  The outskirts of Thebes._

The airfield had been cobbled together at the outbreak of the Great War, and the last ten years had not been kind to it.  There was a single guard slumped under a tasseled umbrella by the airstrip who was either asleep or dead.  Geoff quietly slid a scribbled IOU addressed to “His Maj” into the breast pocket of his uniform and tiptoed off, giggling.

 

There were ’planes in the darkened hangar, but they sure as fuck did not look airworthy.

 

“We’ll get there faster by camel,” Ryan said, gazing mournfully at the decrepit ’planes.

 

“Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it,” Ray said.  “You’re looking at the future.”

 

Michael surveyed the 'planes.  Two were clearly too small to accommodate all of them and their weapons.  The third looked promising.  It promised engine failure.

 

Of course this was the one Ray liked.

 

“Vickers mark three,” he said.  “Nice.”

 

“It’s a piece of shit, Ray,” Michael said flatly.

 

“Shh, baby, he didn’t mean it,” Ray said, caressing a grimy panel.  “Don’t cry, baby.  Don’t cry.”

 

“You’re certifiable,” Geoff said, laughing.  “This our aeroplane, Ray?”

 

“Is this our aeropl—” Ray slapped his hand against the side of the ’plane, eyes sparkling.  “Of course it’s our goddamn aeroplane!  More than that!  She’s our _lady_!  She’s gonna carry us over and bring us home safe, ladies and gentlemen!”

 

Michael followed the line of Ray’s pointing finger, and—of course.  Of fucking course.

 

The ’plane had been christened by its first pilots in calamine pink paint edged with green.  Huge, curling script declared the craft to be _COMING UP ROSES_.

 

“You need help,” Michael told Ray.

 

Ray grinned and clapped him on the back.  “Thanks for volunteering, Navigator Jones.”

  
  
  


_Mid afternoon.  Windy.  Sandy.  A good day for kites.  Not a good day to be fired across a desert in a rattling tin can at 75 miles per hour._

Gavin, reveling in his current status as tallest, least-injured person, had volunteered to turn the propeller, which was in itself an inauspicious beginning, Michael thought.

 

Thirty minutes into the flight, the ’plane was roaring and spluttering beneath them.  The flight was going well enough, but Michael was pretty sure they could drop out of the sky at any time.  He gripped the side of the plane tightly, intending to keep the fucking thing afloat by the sheer force of his willpower.

 

It didn’t help that, as far as Michael knew, Ray’s knowledge of ’planes only went as far back as a crash course (literally) in France a few years back.  They had blown through a greenhouse and ended up bouncing alongside a flock of terrified sheep, some of which had actually died of shock.  Farmer _Jean_ had not been pleased.

 

Right now, though, Ray was flying them steadily, looking ridiculous and more or less drunk on joy in his aviator goggles.  The wind was howling past them, blasting their faces.  If the air had been clearer Michael would have opened his mouth to drink it down.  

 

At a nod from Ray, Michael reached behind to bang on on the passenger hold, where the Hunters had packed themselves like sardines.  The hold should have been big enough for eleven, but since Griffon had insisted on bringing along what amounted to more or less the contents of an entire armory and Lindsay had brought almost a whole shelf of books, it was a tight squeeze.

 

“All right?” he screamed.

 

There was an answering thud, and Michael struggled around in his tiny bucket seat to see Lindsay, cheek pressed against the greasy window, giving them two thumbs up.

 

She caught his eye, winked, nodded, and went back to her reading.

 

Michael slid down in his seat as far as the straps would allow and stared unseeing into the great blue yonder.

  
  
  


_Two memories, seven hours old and about three thousand feet closer to the ground._

 

“Michael,” Lindsay said.  “I think we found something.”

 

She waved him over to Gus’s desk.

 

Mystified, Michael navigated his way through the stacks.  Gus came wading out into the open, flipping carelessly through one of his books.  

 

“Aha,” he said, and pressed the book wide open on his desk, ignoring the ominous way its ancient spine creaked.  “Here.  Look familiar?”

 

Michael’s heart thudded in his chest.

 

“Fuck,” he said.

 

“I know, right?” Lindsay said, delighted.

 

Nestled between two sheets of oil paper was a full color painting of an Egyptian wall relief.  Standing beneath rows of hieroglyphs was a young man doing the standard angular pose, his skirt-thing flaring towards his knees, his shoulders squared.  He wore armbands and a black, pointy-eared headdress, and his eyes were painted.  But it was the thing tied at his waist that had made Michael’s heart jump.  It was big and round and had been carefully foiled by the illustrator—with gold.

 

“Who is he?” Michael said.

 

“A priest,” Lindsay said.  “The high priest of Anubis, in fact, as depicted in a tomb in Deir el Bahri.  That medallion belonged to him.  It was a symbol of his rank.  Priests of Anubis typically only carried the ankh, the key of life and death.”  She pulled out another book and showed the ankh to Michael.  “See?”

 

Michael nodded.

 

Gus drew his attention back to the painting.  “Used to be only high priests of Amun-Ra had the disk—representing the sun—but the custom spread.  I thought I recognized your medallion—I knew it was important—but it took me a little while to find the right illustration.”  He tapped the page.  “It’s definitely the same object.  You recognize it, don’t you?”

 

“So this thing really is associated with Anubis,” Michael said.  He had taken out the medallion and was looking at it again, at all those intricate little shapes molded into the metal.

 

“Looks like it.”  Gus turned the page to reveal a higher quality rendering of the hieroglyphs surrounding the priest.  “Take a look at the writing here.  It says _Bearer of the Will of the God, He who is Keeper of the Scales of Truth, Lord of All, even the unknown West_.”

 

“Is it evil?” Michael asked, hushed.  

 

Gus scoffed.  “Good, evil, does it matter?  It’s _powerful_.”  He paused.  “Keep it on you.  Keep it safe.”

 

“Will do,” Michael said.  He went to drop it into his shirt pocket, but Lindsay stopped him.

 

“Tie it to your belt again, Michael,” she said.  “Just like the priests of old.”

 

“The cord’s fraying,” Michael said.  “It might break.”

 

Lindsay examined the medallion and its cord for a long, quiet moment.  “No,” she said finally.  “I don’t think it will.  And even if it does, I don’t think you’re going to lose it, Michael.”

  
  


Come to think of it, Gavin had said something similar a little while later, when Michael offered him the navigator’s seat.

 

“No, Michael.  ’S no reason.   _I’m not the map anymore._ ”  

 

“Gavin, no,” Michael said, catching him by the arm.  “You’re—it’s fine.  Go ahead.  You know the way.”

 

But Gavin looked at Michael, gaze curiously shuttered, and said, “We don’t need a map anymore, Michael.  The city will find us because you’re here.  It’s looking for you just as much as you’re looking for it.”

 

It wasn’t comforting, but the truth of it was evident.  Michael could feel the pull of the city in his gut, getting stronger and stronger the closer they got.

  
  
  


Air travel was unbelievable, Michael thought.  They had covered the distance of four or five days in three hours.  He was still a little unnerved by the rattle and the hum, but maybe those were old-fashioned notions.

 

This was actually—actually kind of _exhilarating_.  This was _fun as fuck._

 

Ray caught the grin on his face and grinned back.  He let go of the throttle and held out his hand, and Michael reached over and clasped it briefly with his own.

 

He felt like they were ten years old again, pissing themselves with excitement over their new bicycles.

 

“Can we keep her, Michael?” Ray shouted.

 

“Hell yes,” Michael shouted back.

 

He gazed at the horizon.  In the afternoon light the desert was turned to gold, and they were flying straight towards the sharp, shining knife’s edge where sky and desert met.  

  
  
  


The sun was only just beginning to set when the squat, gleaming black houses and temples of Uten Sakhal appeared on the horizon.  The dying light hit the paint and dazzled Michael’s eyes with sparks of red and orange and brightest blue.

 

“Fuck yeah, that’s what I’m talking about!” Ray shouted.  “You see that?  You see that, Michael Victory Jones?”  

 

He whooped, jubilant, and started bringing them down.

 

Michael gripped the medallion between his fingers, felt the cool, neutral weight of it.

 

He felt his mouth stretch wide in a strange, savage smile.

 

“Here we go again,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not as punny as Barbara. Puns slightly shamefully lifted from [this thread](http://puns.tribe.net/thread/e11a6443-e5b7-4520-abb9-5f76e6d3b357).
> 
> Re: RAF planes, I spent a few hours reading up on military transport aircrafts from 1920-1929. not enough time to figure out how air-to-air communication worked in those days, but long enough to get a list of plane types. (bless you, wikipedia.) 
> 
> I really wanted to use the “Beardmore Inflexible,” because holy crap what an incredible, Gents-relevant name, but I think it was a bomber rather than a transporter. The biplane in this chapter is the Vickers Vernon MK III and it was actually used by the RAF in the Middle East in 1923 to evacuate British troops to Kirkuk. It seats eleven passengers plus three crew members (there is, however, only one seat in the cockpit, as far as I can tell) or six stretchers.
> 
> Speaking of incredible names, there was also an aircraft manufacturer called the Fairey Aviation Company, and they produced a fantastic line of recon planes and bombers during and between the two world wars, including but not limited to:
> 
>   * Fairey Campania
>   * Fairey Fawn
>   * Fairey Firefly I & II
>   * Fairey Ferret
>   * Fairey Fox
>   * Fairey Fleetwing
>   * Fairey Seal
>   * Fairey Gordon 
>   * Fairey Swordfish
>   * Fairey Fantôme 
>   * Fairey Battle
>   * Fairey Seafox 
>   * Fairey Albacore
>   * Fairey Barracuda
>   * Fairey Spearfish
>   * Tipsy B
>   * Tipsy Nipper
> 

> 
> anyway, just wanted to share. Beardmore Inflexible. say it out loud.


	11. the dead land

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, I’m back! sorry for the delay. I struggled a little bit with this one. started it with one idea and ended up—well, you’ll see.

_Egypt.  Desert.  Big surprise._

 

For a campaign that had begun with a transport ’plane stuffed to the gills with weapons and seven people stuffed to the gills with murderous intent (if Gavin was stuffed with anything—shut up, Ray, shut the fuck up—it was stupidity), this was shaping up to look a lot more like a serious archaeological expedition

 

The sand, for fucking once, stayed exactly where it was supposed to be, blasting dry heat through the soles of Michael’s ragged shoes into his feet.  There had been no wicked storm to announce their arrival, no screaming wall of sand that had suddenly fallen away to reveal the blackened city.  

 

Maybe it was because they had come from the air and all the evil was in the ground.

 

Or maybe it was because no one was home.  Michael wouldn’t go so far as to admit that Gavin might have been right, but, well, if there had been anything living (or _un_ living) in that city, it was gone now.  They were working in ruins, and the ruins felt like just that:  ruined—abandoned and empty, totally ancient, if strangely well-preserved.

 

They were excavating the temple.

 

It was Gavin who had suggested it.  Lindsay had been in favor of mapping out the city, but as Gavin pointed out, this was where they had found the sarcophagus.  And Michael had had to admit that he got a little weird and tingly whenever he set foot near the damn thing, and that had to mean something, right?

 

Geoff had murmured that it meant Michael was crazy as fuck.  But Ray said he felt the same way, and Gavin would not shut the fuck up about it, so eventually they decided to clear the rubble in the main chamber and survey the city first thing in the morning.

 

“ _Careful, Michael!_ ” Lindsay said.

 

“Huh?  Yeah,” Michael said, blinking.  He had argued his way into the digging party, to replace Jack and his bruised ribs, but the stiffness of his side and arm had made him clumsy.  “What?”

 

“I want to be able to read what’s on the walls, Michael Jones,” she replied severely, “and I can’t do that if you chip all the writing off.”

 

“Your humble servant begs your forgiveness, Sheikha,” Michael said, grinning at her.

 

She grinned back, but her eyes were watchful.  “Sure you’re okay?”

 

“Uh-huh, why wouldn’t I be?” Michael said, which was a little disingenuous but hey, whatever.  

 

He had thought it might take all of his willpower to keep himself from breaking his shovel on any image of the dog’s face, and clearly Lindsay had thought so too because she had wanted to post him on water duty at first.  But he was fine.  The pictures on the walls were just carvings.  They didn’t mean anything to him.  Lindsay wanted them clean and legible and he was gonna help make that happen.

 

He might as well have been helping Ray’s mama out with her garden, he was so calm.

 

Speaking of—

 

“Gus says—”

 

Ray’s head appeared in the hole above them.  He had posted himself temporarily in the hold of _COMING UP ROSES,_  waiting for word from Gus.  He was waving a piece of paper where he had jotted down lines of Morse and translated them.  

 

“Hey, Ray!” Michael yelled.  “Get your ass down here and help us dig!”

 

Ray ignored him.  “Gus says—”

 

“Did you tell him we’re digging down?” Geoff yelled, from the other side of a pile of crumbling wall and statuary.  “First one to bedrock wins a prize!”

 

“I did.  He says ‘fuck you, Geoff,’” Ray said.  “And a bunch of other things I won’t repeat here, in part because Morse code is not a medium suited to the fine, fine art of profanity, but mostly because I don’t think our young Mister Jones’s innocent ears should be subjected to this kind of language.”

 

“Fuck you, Ray,” Michael said, automatically and without much heat.

 

Ray went on.  “Gus says congratulations on not killing everyone.  Oh, that was for me.  He also said, and I quote—” Ray held up the paper in both hands and read loudly, like some kind of medieval herald “—‘Hurry up, you fucking fucks.’ ”  He balled the paper up and threw it at Lindsay, who caught it and scanned it.  “Any response?”

 

“Hah,” Lindsay said.  “Just let him stew.  We’re working as fast as we can.”

 

“Damn straight,” yelled Geoff, clearly also stewing.

 

“All right, sure,” Ray said.  He vaulted over the edge of the hole and slipped quickly and easily down the rope ladder, rolling up his sleeves as he sauntered.  “Yo, Michael, pass me a shovel.”

 

Michael obliged.  “Knock yourself out.”

 

Ray snorted.  “Yeah, I’m gonna try not to do that.”

  


 

 

_Digging, digging, dehydrated._

 

They started out with a little bit of banter and a hell of a lot of swearing, but by the time they had dug down a few feet, all that Michael could hear was the sound of shifting rock and sand, grinding and grating, and his own rasping breaths.

 

“Explain to me again how this is going to help us annihilate the sand monster?” Jack said, when he came to lower a package of newly filled flasks and waterskins.  He offered a status report, too: the city was empty and a long look in all directions with the binoculars had revealed only the clear evening sky.

 

“Search me,” said Michael.  He accepted a skin and tried to drink carefully, but some water still dribbled out of his mouth and down his shirt.  “Fuck.  Thanks, man.”

 

Jack laughed at him and tossed a skin into Geoff’s open arms.

 

“Shit,” Ray said, semi-collapsed over his shovel and groaning, “what’d these guys build, a fucking skyscraper?  What the hell.  Where’s the fucking floor?”

 

“We gotta be almost there,” Michael said.

 

“Hell, Michael, I don’t know,” Ray said.  “These are the fuckers who built the pyramids.  This shit could go miles underground.”

 

“You know it doesn’t,” Michael said, laughing.

 

“Haven’t heard you laugh in a while, bro,” Ray said.

 

“Yeah, well,” Michael said.  “Feels nice to be doing something.  ’Stead of running away all the fucking time.”

 

“I’m sure that’s all it is,” Ray said.

 

“Fuck off.”

 

“You guys set a date yet?”

 

“I’ll bury you here, Ray, I swear to fuck I will, you piece of shit.”

 

“Go ahead.  Dead men dig no ditches.”

 

There was a thump as Geoff hurled his waterskin into the darkness beyond their torches.  “How much fucking sand and fucking debris can a fucking place fucking accumulate in a few fucking days?” he whined.

 

“Seriously,” Ray said.

 

“Tuggey!  How do you know we haven’t already dug to the floor?”

 

“Because we’ll see the residue,” Lindsay said.  “Traces of whatever it was they used here.  It wouldn’t have just been beaten earth.  We’ll see smooth stone.   _Or_ ,” she continued, eyes sparkling, “there’s a whole ’nother level below us!  Oooh, this place is amazing!”

 

“Fuuuuuck,” groaned Geoff.

 

“Aren’t you gonna cause another cave in?” Jack said, re-appearing above them.   “Uh, should Gavin be touching that?”

 

“Good question,” Michael said.  “ _Great_ question.”

 

“Michael!” Gavin said.  “I am an excellent digger, thank you.  Er, Michael?”

 

The relief behind Gavin's head had caught Michael's attention.  It was an image of a priest with something that looked like the sun between his cupped hands, offering it to the jackal god seated on the dais before him.  The priest was in miniature; the jackal man was almost five times his size.  Lindsay had mentioned something about status, and then she and Ray had bantered about the importance of size—

 

Michael realized he was subjecting Gavin to a thousand-yard stare.  He gave himself a shake and focused:  Gavin was looking at him, fingers still kind of trailing along his arm.  It was kind of hesitant and tentative and really not how Michael figured things would be going, considering they had already gone all the way, and then some, and yeah, okay, maybe Michael _had_ been thinking about setting a date, which was crazy, but Gavin _made_ him crazy—

 

“Er—all right, Michael?”

 

Michael coughed.  “What?  Yeah.  Yup.”

 

Gavin didn’t look convinced.  “Sure?”

 

“I’m just peachy,” Michael said.  He picked up his shovel.  “Don’t worry about me, Gav.  Let’s do this—”

 

 

 

Night fell, and Michael found himself alone in the sand.  He wondered where the Hunters had gone, but somehow it didn’t feel important at that moment.  Whispers drifted on the night breeze, brushed his ears, told him stories of kings and priests.  He was on a riverbank.  There were eyes in the reeds, and a moon in the starless sky, as round and golden as a Roman coin.

 

He looked down.  The jackal man was standing on the other side of the river, staring him down with his single beady lapis eye.

 

Michael wanted to yell, to swear, to run, but he couldn’t move.  His jaws were locked together.

 

“Why do you resist?” the jackal man said.  His voice filled Michael’s ears until it was all he could hear; his weird jackal’s head grew until it blotted out the moon and sky.  “Is it stubbornness, or is it stupidity?”

 

“ _Grgh_ ,” Michael said.

 

“Bow to me,” the jackal man said.  “Do my bidding in the realm of the living.  Hurry now, little man, for the time is short.”

 

 

 

“Michael!  Michael Jones!”

 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Gavin, if you ask me if I’m okay one more god damn time— _what the fuck_?”

 

Michael went to slam his shovel into the side of the ditch and realized there was nothing in his hands.  And that he was lying down.  And that it was fucking _the middle of the night_.  There were a billion fucking stars twinkling overhead and below them was Gavin, on his hands and knees leaning over him, a shadow with bright eyes and teeth.

 

“Michael,” Gavin said, hushed, wondering, “you were asleep.”

 

“Fuck off,” Michael said.  “No.”

 

He was sweating and prickly, but the air on his face was cold.  Someone had thrown a blanket over him.  He could see the red glow of firelight just over Gavin’s shoulder.

 

“You slept for hours,” Gavin said.  “Regular Sleepin’ Beauty, you were.”

 

“Bullshit.”

 

“Michael!  Did you—dream?”

 

“No,” Michael said shortly.  He started to sit up but Gavin pressed him back down, pinning him with the fucking blanket.  “Gavin—what—”

 

“Did you dream, Michael?” Gavin said.

 

“Yes, all right, fuck,” Michael snapped.  “I saw him, I saw the jackal man.  He was standing right over there, on the other side of the— _river_?  Jesus, I didn’t even know I was asleep.  I thought I was back on the Nile—”

 

Memory returned, slow and fuzzy.  A clang of shovels.  Ray yelling in mingled relief and triumph.  The burning heat of the sand through his mat and clothing, and blackness settling heavy and welcome across his vision—and then—nothing.

 

Gavin said, insistent:  “You’re absolutely sure you’re feeling all right?  Tippity toppers?”

 

“This again?”  But Michael flexed, stretched.  Curled his toes.  Ran through the whole damn inventory.  “I’m fine, idiot.”  Then he imagined the face Gavin was probably making and sighed.  “I guess I feel a little heavy.  My back’s sore.  So?”

 

“Did he speak to you, Michael?  Did he say—anything?”

 

“I don’t know, I don’t remember.  I don’t want to talk about it.”  Michael shrugged his shoulders until Gavin let go of him.  “Get this damn thing off me.”

 

“It’s cold, Michael—”

 

“Fuck that, I’m sweating enough to flood the fucking Nile.  Shit.  Jesus.”  He struggled upright, ripping his arms from under the blanket and yanking the thing away from his neck.

 

“I was startin’ t’ worry,” Gavin confided.  “You were out.  Like the dead.”  

 

Then he choked and said, “I mean, not—well—not like the _dead_ —sorry, Michael—!”

 

Distantly, so softly it might have just been Michael’s imagination, the wind howled across the sand.

 

“Did Ray draw something on my face?” Michael said, finally.  “Did Geoff?  Did you?’

 

Gavin spluttered.  “What?  No, ’course not!  Michael, be serious!”

 

“I am serious.  Hey, it’s important.  Can’t save the world with a dick on my forehead.”

 

“Michael—”

 

“I’m hungry,” Michael said, cutting him off.  He got to his feet and threw the blanket at Gavin’s head.  The resulting squawk was a thing of beauty.

 

 

 

“He’s awake!” Gavin announced.

 

The Hunters were sitting in a circle around the fire, cosily wrapped in blankets.  And drinking.  Lindsay was drinking and reading.  So was Griffon, actually, but her book was a beat-up pocketbook called _The Heist_ with a droopy-eyed flapper on the cover.

 

A droopy-eyed flapper holding a Gatling gun.  Which actually made more sense, considering this was Griffon and all.

 

“Hey, hey, hey, it’s Sleeping Beauty!” said Geoff, raising his flask in a slightly sarcastic toast.  “Mornin’, Jones.”

 

“Jonesy-Jones, lazy bones,” said Ryan.

 

“Wow,” Michael drawled.  “Watch out, Shakespeare.  We got our own bard right here.”  He sat down beside Ray and kicked at the pot.  “Any grub left, or did Jack eat it all?”

 

“Hey!” Jack said.  “Uncalled for.”  He grinned.  “I thought about it, but I’m a gent.”

 

He scraped some slightly charred brown stuff onto a plate and passed it to Michael.

 

“Bevs, Michael?” Gavin said.  He set down the blanket, reached behind Griffon and sat up again with a bottle in each hand, because booze was just as important as ammo, if not more, and damn right Griffon believed in going into battle _prepared_.

 

“That’s my wifey,” Geoff said happily.

 

“We’ve got bourbon,” Gavin said.  “Or some lovely _vodka_.”  He said it with the fucking stagiest Russian accent Michael had ever heard.  “Prezzie from the New Memnon, I’m told.”

 

It had survived the onslaught of the Sandman and was clearly worth drinking, Jack said.

 

“Not like we’d be welcome back anyway,” he added.

 

“We did also lift the furniture from an entire room,” Ryan pointed out.

 

“Yeah,” Jack said.  “Also that.”

 

“So, bevs?” said Gavin again, almost hopefully.

 

Michael waved him off.  “Nah, I’m good.  Thanks, boy.”

 

“How ’bout some coffee, then?” Geoff said, grinning wide.  “Just in case?”

 

“Fuck off, Geoff, I’m awake now,” Michael grumbled.  “So what’d I miss?”

 

“Well,” Ray said, “we told Gus that we dug to the floor of the temple.”

 

“And?”

 

Ray made a face.  “Uh, what’d he say again, Lindsay?”

 

Eyes still glued to the page of her book, Lindsay said, “He said, ‘Good for you.’  He also said the sand in Thebes is getting thicker.  He added that the sky is blue and the grass is green, or they would be if he could see them.  You know, through the sand and all.”

 

“Who spit in his coffee?” said Geoff.  “Wait, stupid question.”

 

“More fucking sand?  Where’s it all fucking coming from?” Michael said.  He flapped an arm at the desert around them.  “Not fucking here!”

 

“It comes from the West, maybe,” Gavin said.

 

“What, the Sahara?” Ray said.  

 

“No,” Gavin said.  “The _West_.  As in the land of the dead.”

 

Michael felt a tremor run through him.

 

 

 

_—Bearer of the Will of the God, He who is Keeper of the Scales of Truth, Lord of All, even the unknown West—_

 

_Bow to me._

 

 

 

“Of course,” Michael said, staring at him.  “Because that makes so much sense.”

 

Lindsay chuckled.  “Come on, Michael.  James A. Garfield?  Magic?  I thought you already suspended all your disbelief.”

 

“Oh, yeah, I suspended that shit,” Michael said.  “I suspended it all the way to the fucking moon.  I got a pulley system.”

 

The others had listened in silence—Michael assumed because they were either too fucking confused to comment or too busy kicking themselves about not placing bets on Michael’s teetering sanity.

 

Ryan said, “You mean all this killer sand is literally from _hell_?”

 

“Why not?” Gavin said, stubborn.

 

"Whoa," Ryan said.

 

“That would explain the goddamn torrents of scorpions,” Jack said.

 

“Hell no,” Geoff burst out.  “That’s too goddamn weird for me.”

 

“You face off against a walking, talking malevolent sandstorm and _this_ is where you draw the line?” said Ryan.

 

“You’re askin’ me to believe the ancient Egyptians had it right, about the afterlife and gods and all that shit?”

 

“You got your evidence staring you in the face, buddy,” Ryan said.

 

“So it’s magic, fine,” Geoff said.  “I can believe in magic.  But if you’re tellin’ me that after I die some giant coyote is gonna weigh my heart against a fuckin’ feather and then feed me to a crocodile—”  He gulped down a breath and then a mouthful of something from his flask.  “Or if, by some miracle, I don’t tip the fucking scales, I’m gonna end up in some parallel world farmin’ along the Nile with a bunch of clay dolls I got buried with?  Jesus fuck, man, I’m from _Alabama_.  Alabama!”

 

“Mississippi, Nile, same difference,” Ryan said.

 

“You take that back,” Geoff said.  “You take that back right now, Haywood.”

 

Things went downhill from there.

 

 

 

_Midnight._

 

The Hunters got rowdy, and Michael helped Lindsay set up an actual fucking desert bureau—using some of the furniture commandeered from the New Memnon—a little distance away from the fire.

 

“Well, ain’t this a fancy goddamn desert,” Michael said, helping himself to a chair embellished with paisley upholstery and fucking carved animal paws for feet.

 

“My tea, butler,” said Lindsay, tapping an imaginary bell and giggling.

 

With unbelievable timing, Gavin came strolling towards them, bottle in hand.  “Michael!” he said, then frowned as Lindsay and Michael started choking with laughter.  “What’re you laughin’ at?”

 

“Milk and two sugars, please,” Lindsay said, still snickering.

 

Shaking his head, bewildered but evidently happy to let it go, Gavin sat down at Michael’s feet.  

 

“Can’t keep up with that lot,” he said.

 

Michael followed the tilt of Gavin’s head and saw the silhouette of someone—likely Geoff—jigging exuberantly in front of the fire.

 

Lindsay grinned and turned back to her work.  She was mapping out the main chamber of the temple in relation to the rest of the city—because the positioning of the altar might be important, or something.  She mentioned something else about a calendar and a flood, and the path of a certain set of stars.  Michael just nodded along, listening to the sound of her pen scratching on paper.

 

Gavin didn’t say anything, just leaned back against Michael’s legs, drinking and staring into space.  

 

Michael kneed him gently in the back and watched, amused, as Gavin gave a sort of full-body convulsion.  

 

“Penny for ’em,” he said.

 

Gavin started.  “Oh—I was just thinking."

 

“Yeah, I know,” Michael said.  “Spit it out, man.”

 

Gavin set his bottle down.  “D’you think it’s from Duat?” he said.  “The sand, that is.”

 

“Doo-wha?” said Michael.

 

“ _Duat_ , Michael,” Gavin said.  “The dead land.  Where you go after you die.”

 

“The West,” Michael said.  “Right?”

 

“It’s not entirely clear,” Lindsay said, looking up from her map.  “Some scholars have argued that there are multiple realms, and that Duat and the land to the west are two different places.”

 

“There’s weird stuff in Duat,” Gavin said.  “Lakes of fire, trees of turquoise.  And demons, I guess, lurkin’ at every corner.  That’s what the Book of the Dead is for, y’see, Michael.  It teaches you all the ways to outwit the demons, sneak past their defenses.”

 

“You have to travel through Duat to reach the gate of Anubis,” Lindsay explained.  “The true land of the dead, which is said to be paradise, is what lies beyond that—if your heart passes the test of the scales, that is.  But first you have to get by all the monsters.”

 

“I think Duat exists,” Gavin said.

 

“What, lakes of fire and all?” Lindsay said.  “Gavin—it’s hokum.  Fairy stories.”

 

“Pulley system,” Michael murmured.

 

Lindsay groaned.  “All right, fair enough.  Why do you think Duat exists, Gavin?”

 

“You can’t pull something out of nothing,” Gavin said.  “Michael said it—the sand has to come from somewhere.”

 

“I see,” Lindsay said.  “Manifestations and miracles aren’t good enough for you, are they, Gavin Free?”

 

“Well, let’s try another angle, then,” Gavin said.  He traced a stick figure in the sand and a jumble of lines that Michael assumed was meant to look like a scorpion.  “Look at our lovely Mister Sandman.  If he’d done something so dam’ terrible they cursed him, he must have been a real smeggin’ tosspot.  A nasty character.  Right?”

 

“Right,” Lindsay said.

 

“Total asshole,” Michael agreed.

 

“If I were cursin’ a nasty character, I’d wanna use somethin’ that didn’t have an expiration date.  It was just a flimsy little box.  Bound to rot away sooner or later.  When I want to lock somethin’ away for all eternity, I don’t just put it in a _box_.”

 

Michael grinned.  “You put it in a box, and then a bigger box, and then a safe, and then a bigger safe, and then you give it the cement treatment and chuck it into the deepest part of the Atlantic—”

 

“No!  Well, yes, in a manner of speakin’.  What I’m sayin’ is, Lindsay, y’ wouldn’t imprison your villainous sandman in a place as vulnerable as the mundane world.  You’d stick him between worlds.  In a place where he couldn’t make mischief.   _Between your world and Duat_.”

 

“Pulley system,” Lindsay reminded Michael, as he opened his mouth to object.  

 

“Okay, so, Duat is the Atlantic, in this version of events,” Michael said.  “You take your cursed heart, plop it in your standard wooden box, lock it up, and then what, throw it into another world?  The box was physically here, Gavin.  We both touched it.”

 

“The city is here right now,” Gavin argued, “and we’re sittin’ in it, but I can guarantee you, Michael, it won’t be here for long.  You know that.  And the damn’ thing vanished, didn’t it?”

 

“It disintegrated,” Michael said.

 

“How can you be sure?” Gavin said.

 

“So, we have a box of dubious origin,” Lindsay said.  “Are we talkin’ some kind of Pandora-type situation?  Portal to the evils of the universe?”

 

“Death is what connects our world to Duat,” Gavin said.  “The curse was unleashed not because I opened the box, but because I opened the box _here_ , in a city of the god of the dead, where the edges of Duat and this world bleed into one another.”  He was jiggling his foot, tapping the sand, unable to keep still.  “I’m tellin’ you, we’re on the boundary right now, Lindsay, Michael!  We’re sittin’ on the gates to Duat!”

 

“You think our combat strategy lies somewhere in the Book of the Dead,” Lindsay said, slowly.  “You think it’s as easy as that.”

 

Gavin nodded.  “Let’s help our chappie pass on and let Anubis deal with him.”

 

“That’s why you wanted to come back,” Lindsay said.  “To examine the burial site.”

 

“Yeah,” Gavin said.  “I wanted to have another look at the sarky.”  Hurriedly, he added, “ ’Course, I’m not sayin’ the city isn’t important, Lindsay.  Absolutely is.”

 

“But maybe more from an archaeological standpoint,” Lindsay said.  “It is important, but not right now.”

 

Gavin wiped the stick figure away.  “You can always come back, Lindsay, when this is finished.”

 

“Yes,” Lindsay said.  “With a real expedition.  Not that you guys aren’t great, but—”

 

“Let’s go,” Michael said.

 

“What?”

 

They both looked at him.  He stood up, brushing sand from the seat of his pants.  “Gavin.  You wanted to look at the sarcophagus.  Let’s go.”

 

“Right this moment?”  

 

“Yes, fuck, yes, right now,” Michael said.  Gavin was eyeing his outstretched hand with a fucking irritating amount of hesitation.  “Now’s as good a time as any.  Now’s the _only_ time.”

 

“We could wait ’til it’s light,” Gavin said.

 

“Yeah, we could,” Michael said nastily.  “If we had any guarantee that the sun is gonna rise again.  I know it’s all fun and games when the sky’s clear and there’s no crazy sand vortex swirlin’ straight at you.  Feels like a day at the beach.”  He sucked in a deep, deep breath.  "But it fucking _isn’t_!  This is life or death shit, Gavin.  Gus is already buried up to his fucking neck in Thebes and the rest of the world's gonna follow.  God knows what Cairo looks like now.  It’s the monster or us.  The monster or the entire goddamn world.  Fuck, we can't afford to wait!”

 

“All right, Michael,” Gavin said, with a smile curling at the corner of his mouth, like something was funny.  Which it fucking wasn't.

 

“Good.  Jesus,” Michael said.  “Let’s go, Lindsay.”

 

Lindsay was already on her feet, folding up her map, but she shook her head.  “I’ll join you in a minute,” she said.  “I’ll tell the others what we’re thinking.”

 

“Tell ’em to get some rest,” Gavin called after her.  “They don’t all have to come.”

 

Lindsay, mid-trudge towards the fire, waved her hand in acknowledgement.

 

Gavin looked up at him.  "Don’t need ’em bangin’ about, yeah, Michael?"  The smile was full-fledged now.  “It'll be you ’n’ me, Michael,” he said.  He was smiling.  “You ’n’ me, explorin’—archaeologizin’!  It’ll be dynamite, Michael!  We’ll be dynamite!”

 

“Atta boy,” Michael said, and reached out to pull him to his feet.

 

He recoiled, swearing.

 

“Careful!” Gavin said.  “Oi!  Michael, wh—”

 

Michael ignored him and pressed his hands to Gavin’s face, his throat.

 

Gavin made a muffled noise of panic and tried to slip away, but Michael grabbed his arm—oh, Jesus!—and held on.

 

“ _Michael_ —”

 

Gavin was standing in front of him, wide-eyed; that was Gavin’s arm Michael was holding.  But Michael might as well have been touching the cold sand beneath their feet.

 

“You’re fucking freezing!” Michael said.  “Jesus Christ, your hands—what the fuck, Gavin?”

 

“What’re you on about, Michael, y’doughnut?” Gavin said, still wide-eyed, mouth dropping open to match, every bit of his face registering confusion and concern.  

 

You magnificent fucking  _liar_ , Michael thought, and his chest went so tight and hot it hurt.

 

“You thought I wouldn’t notice?”  He kept his voice low.  “You thought—what, I wasn’t gonna touch you ever again?  Kiss you?  Fuck, Gavin, you feel like a fucking ice sculpture.  Tell me what’s going on.  Right now.”

 

“It’s nothing,” Gavin said.  He was still trying to squirm free, damn him.

 

Michael hooked his fingers in Gavin’s shirt and dragged him in.  

 

“Tell me or I’m getting Griffon,” he said.

 

He _felt_ Gavin’s throat working as he swallowed.

 

“I don’t know,” Gavin said, finally.  “I don’t know what’s happening, Michael.  But—”

 

“Gavin, I swear to God—”

 

Gavin breathed out.  

 

“It is ever so slightly possible,” he said, “that I might be dying.”

 


	12. archaeologizin'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jesus this thing was supposed to be finished by chapter 15 and now it’s looking like...18. 20. help me.

“I, er, might be dyin’,” Gavin said.  “Of death.”

 

It was like having a basin of ice water dumped on his head.  No, scratch that.  It was like getting dumped into a basin of ice water.  Head-first.  

 

“I’m sorry?” Michael said, dangerously.  “You’re dying of death?”

 

“Er.  Yes,” Gavin said.  Then he saw the look on Michael’s face and amended, quavering, “M-maybe?  I think?”

 

“Oh my god,” Michael said, and put his head in his hands.  “Oh my fucking god, Gavin.”

 

It wasn’t just what Gavin had said but the way he’d said it.  Like it was no fucking deal.  Like he was explaining to Michael that he’d stubbed his toe or that he was having the sniffles.  Just a bit of death, Michael, nothing to worry about.  Fucking hell.

 

“Curse plus proximity t’ sarky,” Gavin explained, cool as a goddamn cucumber.  “It’s not the best of combinations for me at the moment.”

 

Michael’s hands had gone limp on his collar and he slipped easily through them.  

 

“Well, my little Michael, now you know.  Let’s keep it a secret for just the two of us, yeah?  I don’t want to—”

 

“Worry Griffon and Geoff,” Michael said.  His voice sounded flat in his ears.  “I know.”

 

“I didn’t want to worry you either,” Gavin said quickly.  “ ’S temporary, after all.”

 

“Temporary?” Michael said.  “You’re dying—of death—temporarily?”  He snorted.  “Yeah.  That’s reassuring.”

 

“Well, of course it’s temporary, Michael!” Gavin said.  “Just ’til we have this little mess sorted out.  I’ll be right as rain in a tickety boo.”

 

“I’m gonna take you home with me,” Michael said, “and teach you to speak actual fucking English.  One of these days.”  

 

He pulled Lindsay’s blanket up from her chair, still warm, and draped it around Gavin’s shoulders.  Tugged it tight under his chin.

 

“I thought you’d be angry,” Gavin said.  “ _Mad_ , as you Americans say.”

 

“Gavin,” Michael said, “I’m always mad.”

 

“Shockin’ revelation,” Gavin said, smiling a funny, lopsided smile.

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Michael—you’re my lovely little volcano, Michael.”

 

“Gavin.  No.”

 

They probably looked ridiculous, Michael thought.  There was Gavin standing there with the woolly blanket falling off his shoulders and Michael looking up at him like a goddamn adoring housewife.  They were a pair of fucking idiots.

 

“D’you really mean it?  What you said—about takin’ me home with you?” Gavin said, very quietly.

 

“Sure, Gav,” Michael said.  “Sure I do.  If the Ramseys let me.  And, uh, if _you_ let me.  Of course I do.”  He cleared his throat.  “I mean, uh, Jersey’s not the most exciting place in the world.  I mean, yeah, okay, it’s a goddamn dump—”

 

“Michael—”

 

“I get it.  I can accept that.  It’s a shithole.  But I figure this adventure’s probably given us enough excitement to last a month or two, right?  Six months, even.  And I’ll take you to New York.  Ray’s folks live there.  Swanky place.  You ever been to New York?  Wait.  Is there a warrant out for your arrest in New York?  Scratch that—is there any part of the United States where you _aren't_ a wanted criminal?”

 

“ _Michael_ ,” Gavin said.

 

Michael coughed and shuffled.  “Yeah?” he said.

 

“I’ll think about it,” Gavin said, soft.  Softer still, he murmured, “Thank you, Michael.  It means a lot t’ me.”

 

“Good,” Michael said, and punched Gavin’s shoulder.  “Good.  Great.  Awesome.  So you better not fuckin’ die on me.  Capisce?”

 

“Michael,” Gavin said again.

 

“Promise me,” Michael said.

 

“Michael—”

 

“Oh!” Lindsay said, hitting them with a beam from her Eveready.  “You’re still here!”

 

“Hey,” Michael said.  “You told ’em?”

 

Lindsay indicated Ryan and Ray with a nod and a sweep of the lantern.  The light bounced off gun belts and ammunition.

 

“Brought some extra muscle,” she said.  “Just in case.”

 

“Well, thank you kindly,” Ryan said.  Then:  “I think his tie’s still crooked, Mrs. Free.”

 

Ray didn’t say anything.  He just smirked.

 

“Ugh,” Michael said.  “Let’s go already.”

 

“Ready, boys?” Lindsay said.  She put out a hand for Ryan to slap an automatic into.

 

Michael hooked a revolver out of his belt and Ray followed suit.  Gavin didn’t have a gun, thank fuck.  He held out his hand and waited, but Ryan just stared at him incredulously and then slowly shook his head.

 

“Ready,” Michael said.

 

“I’m sorry about all this,” Gavin said, as they trudged towards the mouth of the temple.  “I really am, Michael.”

 

“Don’t sweat it,” Michael said.  

 

They walked down into the darkness.

  
  
  
  
  
  


“Phew,” Ryan said, raising the lamp high and illuminating the gleaming dark shapes of the huge statues in the main chamber.  “How’d they even see what they were doing when they built these things?”

 

“My guess is this entire complex, like most temples, was open to the air,” Lindsay said.  “They may have walled it up later.”

 

“To contain the curse,” Gavin said.

 

“Or to protect the statues from sand damage,” Lindsay said.  “Or to accommodate changing tastes in architecture or the eccentricities of a mad king.”  She shrugged.  “Tons of perfectly rational explanations.”

 

“Yeah, but the curse bit’s more likely, innit, Linds,” Gavin said.  “All things considered.”

 

“You’re as bad as Herodotus,” Lindsay said.  “Wanna give me a hand with this?”  She indicated the sarcophagus lid.

 

Michael pushed forward instead.  “Let me,” he said.  “Gavin’s just gonna drop it on your foot or something.”

 

“Oi,” Gavin said, but Michael quelled him with a dark look.  The thing was killing Gavin from a distance—like fuck he was gonna let Gavin spend any more time with it than was strictly necessary.

 

Lindsay shrugged.  “Three, two. . .”

 

The lid was light, but Michael had been digging all evening and his arms had clearly had enough of this archaeology nonsense.  It took Ray rushing forward to support the lid before he and Lindsay were able to hoist it up, flip it, and then lower it to the ground.

 

The creepy writing was still there, dull against the dark polished surface of the wood.  Michael wasn’t sure what he had been expecting.

 

Well, maybe some supernatural bullshit.  Macabre noises.  Ghoulish screaming.  A fountain of blood.  You know, the usual.

 

It was just a piece of hollowed out dead wood.  There was no ominous aura or oily black smoke billowing forth.  The only thing emanating from the opened sarcophagus was silence.

 

Except there had been a body in there, once.  Or—not a body.

 

“So,” Michael said, uneasily, “they really buried him alive?”

 

“Must’ve done,” Gavin said, squatting down.  He ignored the abortive half gesture Michael made and traced the writing with his finger.  “After all, he had time to carve this out.  Poor bloke.”

 

“Not gonna lie,” Ray said, “I’m not feelin’ too sympathetic at the moment.”

 

“Aw, have a heart, Ray,” said Ryan.

 

Michael was pretty sure he was the only one who noticed the full-body tremor that shook Gavin just then.

 

He knelt beside him.

 

“Okay, Gav?” he said.

 

“Smashin’, Michael,” Gavin murmured.  “I’m not about t’ keel over, y’know.”

 

“How do you know?” Michael shot back, maybe a little too aggressively.

 

“Well, I don’t, but you don’t need to hover about like a mother hen,” Gavin said.  “Can I have a light, please, Ryan?”

 

“Here you go,” Ryan said, swinging the lamp over.

 

Michael intercepted it deftly.  "I got it," he said.

"Thank you kindly, Michael," Gavin said. Then, because he apparently had a sixth sense for approaching and ongoing danger and liked to rub his fucking face in it, Gavin leaned forward and plunged his forearms into the depths of the sarcophagus.

 

Michael almost lost his grip on the lamp.  Swearing, he grabbed Gavin by the back of the shirt with his free hand and hauled him backwards.

 

So much for trying to limit Gavin’s contact with the fucking thing.

 

“Gavin, what the hell!”

 

“Michael!” Gavin spluttered.  “Let a lad do a little investigatin’!”

 

“What the hell are you even looking for?” Michael snapped.  He lowered his voice to a hiss.  “This thing’s kill—making you sick!”

 

“Michael,” Gavin said.

 

Huffing, Michael let go.  Gavin tumbled against the sarcophagus with a squeal of dismay.

 

“Shit, sorry, sorry,” Michael said.  “I’ll just, uh, I’ll go stand over there.”

 

“No, stay,” Gavin said, “you can stay, Michael,” and threw a hand out blindly, reaching for him.

 

Michael stayed.

  
  
  
  
  


_Ninety-nine reliefs of Anubis on the wall, ninety-nine reliefs of Anubis. . ._

__  
  


“What are you looking for, anyway?” Michael said, eventually, when the silence had stretched on for an excruciating amount of time.  He had taken over light duty for Ryan, who had helped Lindsay manipulate the sarcophagus lid and was now strolling around the perimeter of the room admiring the wall reliefs in the faint leftover glow.

 

“Just, y’know, clues,” Gavin murmured.

 

“Such as?” Michael prompted.

 

“Names,” Gavin said.

 

“Addresses,” Lindsay said.

 

“What, like thirty-four Anubis Avenue?” said Ray.  “Sand Monster Boulevard?”

 

“No,” Lindsay said, laughing, “things like epithets.  You know, ‘Lord of two lands,’ ‘He who is clothed by leopards,’ that kind of thing.”

 

“Clothed by leopards?” said Ray.  “Holy shit.  Move over, Coco Chanel.”

 

“Leopards,” Lindsay said, “as in the leopard skins worn by priests.”

 

“Oh, right,” Ray said.  “I mean, of course.  It’s obvious.”

 

“Did you find any?  Names or addresses?” Michael said.

 

Lindsay sighed.  “Yes,” she said.  “But none of them seems to be what we’re looking for.  We may have to try dating the sarcophagus.”

 

“Since when do coffins kiss and tell?” Ray said.  “I’m kidding, I’m kidding, I know what you meant,” he added quickly, as Lindsay turned to stare at him.  “Please don’t hurt me.”

 

“You said the city was abandoned during the rule of some queen,” Michael said.  “Queen Bear?  Beatrice?”

 

“Berenike,” Lindsay said.  “But she’s Ptolemaic, Michael.  There were already thousand and thousands of years of Egyptian history before she came on the scene.”

 

“Oh,” Michael said.  “Right.”

 

“Well, we can rule out New Kingdom,” Gavin said.  “This place is too damn’ simple for that.  Very light on the gold.  Poor Geoffrey.”

 

“It could have been built during a revival of a more classical style, though,” Lindsay said.

 

“Interregnum, then,” Gavin said.

 

But Lindsay shook her head.  “This kind of coordinated effort—all the way out in the desert—would have taken direction and organization from a central authority.  A respected authority.  Think how long it would have taken to haul the stones.”

 

“They would have repurposed ’em,” Gavin said.  “From the surroundin’ city.”

 

Lindsay considered.  “Yeah,” she said.  “You’re right.  That’s a good point.”

 

“I’m a regular fount o’ knowledge,” Gavin said happily.

 

“What, you don’t think they beamed the shit here through some kind of portal?” Michael said.

 

“And risk draggin’ something through with it?”

 

“Gavin.  I was kidding.”

 

“Oh, yeah, ’course.”

 

“We don’t even know if he was local or an exile,” Lindsay said.  “Or if they transported him to the desert specifically for the purpose of burying him alive in this city.”  She groaned.  “Gavin, I don’t think our answers are here.”

 

“Ye of little faith,” Gavin said.  “Ye of little faith.”

 

“Digs like this can take months—years,” Lindsay said.  “Gavin, I’m not giving up on you, I promise, but I don’t think we can honestly expect to find anything _tonight_.”

 

“Uh, guys?”

 

Ryan’s voice filtered out of the darkness.  There was a hollow, echoing, sibilant quality to it.  

 

“I think I found something,” he said.

  
  
  
  
  
  


“How in the motherfuck did you find this?” Michael said.

 

Ryan shrugged, throwing shadows.  “I just thought the wall looked kind of funny.”

 

Leave it to Ryan to find a secret fucking passage.  And, yeah, there were seams in the rock face, but they didn’t look suspicious at all.  The reliefs looked exactly the way you’d expect three thousand year old reliefs to look:  old as shit.  Jesus.

 

It was obvious now, of course, since Ryan was standing next to a huge fucking hole in the wall leading to God knows where.

 

The mortar had fused in places and crumbled in others, which was how Ryan had managed to remove an entire chunk of goddamn wall without taking a hammer to it.  Or making any noise.

 

“They bricked it up and chiseled the bricks to match,” Ryan said.  He swept a hand along the side of the hole.  “See how the surface is raised?”  

 

“Jesus Christ,” Michael said.  “Is this how you and Jack found that other chamber, last time we were here?  You fucking eyeballed the wall and said, ‘Yup, right there, there’s the secret treasure room’?”

 

“I’m a treasure hunter, Jones,” Ryan said. “It’s what we do.”

 

“The fuck kind of jumped up treasure hunting academy did you go to,” Michael muttered.  Another thought occurred to him and he flared up again.  “Weren’t you worried about traps?” he demanded.  “Fuck, Ryan.”

 

“Eh,” Ryan said.  “We’re down to a choice of dying now or dying later.  Figured I’d take my chances.”

 

“Bloody good job, Ryan,” Gavin said, rubbing his hands together in excitement.  “Shall we?”

 

Michael looked down the passage.  There was no way to tell where it ended and whether or not it ended in a sharp drop and a pit full of spikes.

 

“After you,” Ryan said gallantly.

 

“Gee, thanks,” Michael said.  But he squared his shoulders and swung his right leg up and through the hole.  

 

“Well?” Lindsay said, looking at him anxiously while he felt around tentatively with his foot pointed like a fucking ballerina.  

 

There was sand there.  And the floor felt solid enough under his pathetically tapping toes, even if it was a foot lower than he had been expecting.  And there wasn’t anything hissing or rattling or reciting weird curses at him, no flaming eyes suddenly lighting up in the pitch black, so that was good.  Right?

 

Yeah.

 

He put his other leg through.  The jagged edges of brick and ancient mortar caught at his clothes.

 

To Gavin, he said, “Gimme the lamp.”

 

Wordless, Gavin passed it over.  Michael crunched down and shimmied the rest of his body in.

  
  
  
  
  


He could feel it right away:  the ceiling was lower, pressing down on him with the weight of tons of sand.  As he raised the lamp he could see that the sand was filtering in even now, trickling down in little streams from the cracks in the walls around him. It brushed against his skin, tickling, spider-soft.

 

He swept the lamp in a slow arc in front of him to dispel anything that might be lurking, gun at the ready.

 

The corridor stretched on.  It was quiet.  He could hear his heartbeat in his throat and ears.

 

“It’s clear,” he called back.

 

“Brilliant,” Gavin exclaimed.  Michael heard him trying to clamber through the hole and turned in time to grab him before he fell.

 

Gavin's arm felt cold and brittle, even through his sleeve.  Michael bit back an exclamation.

 

“Careful,” he snapped instead.

 

“Oooof,” Gavin said.  “Cheers, Michael.”

 

“Jeez, what happened to ladies first?” Lindsay said.  Michael seized her groping hand and helped pull her through.  She looked up at the ceiling and the dark corridor, eyes wide and shining.  “Wow— _amazing_.”

 

Ray slipped in easily enough, but even before he’d put both feet down, there was a grinding, groaning cascade of noise—Ray threw himself backwards, and Michael braced himself, and then another huge chunk of the wall fell away to reveal Ryan, standing with his rifle in his hands.  

 

“Enter a large man with a large gun,” he said.

 

“Seriously, Ryan?” Michael said.  “The whole wall?”

 

“Seriously,” Ryan said.  “Gotta keep our escape route clear.”

 

Michael had to admit there was some wisdom in that.  He admitted it very quietly.

 

Ryan still heard him.

 

“Don’t worry, Jones,” he said.  “Stick with me, I’ll teach you all the good stuff.”

 

“Come on, come on,” Gavin said, and he was goddamn near bouncing with impatience.  “Let’s get a move on.”

 

“How about you stay where I can see you,” Michael said, catching him by the sleeve.  “Ray, with me.  Ryan, you—”

 

“Keep the escape route clear,” Ryan said, grinning.  “No problem.”

 

“Lindsay,” Michael began, and stopped, and swallowed hard as the fucking feeling overtook him, crashing over him like a dark cold wave.

 

“Michael?” Gavin said.

 

“What?” Michael snapped.  “I’m fine, boy.  Keep moving.”

 

He herded them on, staring hard at the ground because he didn’t want to see whatever it was lurking behind his eyelids.

 

They shuffled on, down and down and down, deeper into the earth.  

 

Eventually—it could have been ten minutes, could have been an hour, Michael didn’t fucking know—they hit a ninety-degree bend where the passageway turned left, but Lindsay didn’t turn with it.  

 

Michael walked right into her.  She didn’t even notice.  She was staring straight ahead and the lamp was shaking in her hand, actually rattling.

 

Michael followed the flickering light and saw it glancing off a multitude of small, glossy surfaces, and all at once every single hair on his fucking arms stood on end.

 

“Is—is that a room?” Ray said.

 

“Blimey!” said Gavin.

 

There was a hole in the wall, again.  This time the brick had already crumbled for them.  Pieces of it were piled up across the threshold of a dark doorway.

 

“Holy shit,” Lindsay said.  “Holy shit.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


_Some tiny-ass buried secret treasure room or something._

 

The room was small enough that Lindsay’s lamp lit it from top to bottom, leaving only the corners and far wall in darkness.  The door was lined on either side with all kinds of containers that looked like they were made of stone or clay, but as Michael moved in with the lamp, light ignited on the tops of gleaming metallic edges.

 

“Treasure!” said Ryan happily.  

 

Most of the glittering was coming from a table or bench-shaped piece of furniture at the center of the room, though.  It was big, dinner-table-sized, made of some smooth dark wood, and it was littered with fucking torture devices.

 

Lindsay was squeaking with excitement.

 

“What the fuck,” Michael said.

 

“It’s a preparation chamber, love,” Gavin said.  “Mummies, Michael!  This is where they made the mummies!  All the way here in the bloody center of the earth!”

 

“Oh my god,” squeaked Lindsay.  “This is the best day of my life!”

 

“Okay, great, awesome,” Michael said.  “I’m happy for you.  Now what?”

 

Ryan said, “We should get the others.  Geoff, at least.”

 

“All right, yeah, sure,” Gavin said, “but can’t we just have a little tiptoe around first?  Just the, ah, five of us?  Just a little peek?”

 

“Hell yes,” Lindsay burst out.  “This is huge.  This is the greatest thing that has ever been discovered—ever.  We’d better save the fucking world because I am coming back and excavating the shit out of this place when this is all over.”

 

“Hear, hear,” Ray said.

 

She and Gavin started careening around the edges of the room, looking at all the objects, the little statues, the tiny stone and metal pinchers and prodders and brain-scramblers.

 

“Gavin, don’t you fucking dare open any boxes labeled ‘Death,’” Michael said.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Gavin said.  “Oh!  Oh, little canopic jars!”

 

“What the hell is that?” Michael said, pointing at what looked like a wooden bathtub.

 

“That’s for natron,” Lindsay said, glancing back.  “It’s a kind of salt.”  She grinned.  “You stick your prepared mummy in there and give it seventy or so days and he kind of shrivels up.”

 

“Jesus Christ,” Michael said.

 

“Look at all these bloody sacred writings!” Gavin called.  “All over the walls!”

 

“Gavin, don’t touch anything,” Michael said uselessly.

 

“Don’t worry, Michael, this room’s bloody _papered_ in protectio— _oh my goodness gracious!_ ”

 

For once Michael didn’t blame him for jumping.  They all twitched and swore as Lindsay swept the light forward and it danced across the form and features of a human being at the far wall.

 

This wasn’t skin stretched tight over a long-dead skeleton—it was full and plump and glistening—

 

Ray peered closer, having thoughtfully pressed a hand on top of Michael’s to keep him from opening fire, and said—

 

“God  _damn_.”

 

And Michael squinted and saw that the face had tarnished green, that the eyes were inlaid gems, that the extended arms and individual fingers were stiff and angular.  That each half-moon fingernail was a single thin slice of carefully shaped red stone.  The hands curved down over the edge of a wooden lid, cupped as though they were holding water.  The wood was smooth and shining, like black glass.

 

“An effigy,” Gavin exclaimed.

 

Slowly, as one, they moved closer.  The face belonged to a life-sized human head and torso, which formed the backing of a huge black box.  It sat at the back of the room, against the brick, apparently neither important enough nor beautiful enough to be a display piece.

 

Michael looked at the rounded, beardless cheeks and low, straight lapis brows, the long, curving eyes decorated with gold and malachite.  A god’s face.

 

“On behalf of Geoff,” Ryan announced, “I would like to make a noise of mingled pain and desire.”

 

“Bronze and gold,” Lindsay said.  She laughed, delighted.  “This is definitely New Kingdom.  Gavin?”

 

“Definitely,” Gavin agreed.  “Ebony, carnelian, jasper, jade—the spoils of a powerful dynasty.  You were right, Lindsay.  It’s one thing to reuse old stone, but to commission and transport an object like this—”

 

“Right,” Lindsay said.  “That takes _majesty_!”

 

“Rameses the Great,” Gavin said.  “That narrows it to about a century.”

 

“A well-documented century,” Lindsay said.  “This is incredible.  I have the king lists and a book of cases from this period—they're in the 'plane!  Gavin, we could solve this!”

 

Michael said, “I’ve seen this wood before.”

 

Two heads swiveled towards him.

 

“Wossat?” Gavin said.

 

“This wood,” Michael said.  “It’s the same kind that other box was made of.  Isn’t it?”

 

“Well, yeah,” Gavin said.  “But Egypt has always had sources of ebony.  They might be from different times.”

 

Michael pointed at the carved hands.  They formed a circle.

 

“Okay, but I’m pretty sure that’s the same locking mechanism,” he said.

  
  
  
  
  


There was a brief, stunned silence.

 

“God damn it,” said Ray.  “One lock?   _One_ lock?   _Again?_  I need to go back in time and have a word with these guys about their security protocol.”

 

Gavin was staring at the box with huge eyes, suddenly pale.  Then he gave a quavery little gasp and fucking lunged for it, but Michael nabbed him just in time.

 

“Wait, wait, _wait_!” Michael said.  “Ancient, murderous, supernatural evil, remember?  Are there any warnings on the fucking thing?”

 

“It’s fine, Michael,” Gavin said.  “Michael, this is it, this is what we need!  Michael!  Let me—”

 

“ _Check. First_ ,” Michael said.

 

Lindsay squatted down, holding the lamp up to the sides of the box.

 

“We’re good, Michael,” she said, after a pause.

 

“Why, what’s it say?” Michael said, suspicious.  He was about eighty percent sure that Lindsay, like Gavin, was willing to ignore any and all warnings about Deathy Death Death in the name of Archaeological Discovery.

 

“Not much,” Lindsay said.  “Just that all walkers must be righteous and beloved by Anubis.”

 

“That’s you, Michael,” Gavin said.

 

“Seeing as he often tries to murder me in my sleep,” Michael said, “I’m gonna guess he’s actually not that fond of me at the moment.”  He held up a hand, stalling Gavin’s protest.  “I’m gonna open it anyway so don’t fret, baby.  But if I get struck by lightning, it’s all your fault, you’re a piece of shit and I hate you.”

 

“Good luck, bro,” Ray said.

 

Michael squared his shoulders.

 

It was ill-advised as fuck, but Ryan was right:  They could die now or die later and they might as well take their chances.

 

Anyway, what were the odds that box number two would also be filled to the brim with fucking _eternal_ amounts of scorpions?

 

The medallion, wobbling in Michael’s clammy grasp, slotted perfectly in between the cupped hands that formed the lock.

 

Quietly, barely breathing, Gavin demonstrated the twisting motion, and Michael copied him.  There was a tiny, almost imperceptibly soft _click_ of release.

  
Then carefully, oh so fucking carefully, Michael and Lindsay eased the lid open.


	13. the one in the hole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like the title kind of gives this one away. but come on, you all knew this was going to happen.
> 
> also, I apologize for the science—or lack thereof—in this chapter.

The black of inside of the box sucked in lamplight like a void.  Silent, knelt around it, they gazed in.

 

“It’s empty,” Ray said finally, disappointment raw in his voice.

 

“That can’t be,” Gavin said.  “No!”

 

“Gavin,” Michael said, warningly, but Gavin shoved past him anyway and reached—   

 

He thrust an arm in and pulled out a cluster of dark gray and black stones.  Their surfaces had been scored and chipped.  They were unpolished—ugly.

 

“ _Rocks_?” Lindsay said.

 

“Rocks?” Ray echoed.

 

“Did something break in there?” Michael said.  “An amulet?”

 

“No,” Gavin said, frowning at his hand.  “They’re—rocks.”  

 

“Well, that’s just silly,” Ryan said.  “And anachronistic.”

 

“We shouldn’t have moved them,” Lindsay said.  “I think they were on a string once.  We’ll never know how they were arranged—”

 

Gavin let out a ragged cry and hurled his handful of rocks into the dark.  

 

“Hey—careful!” Lindsay exclaimed.  “What the hell, Gavin!”

 

The rocks were still clattering as they rolled and fell.  Gavin’s face crumpled and he turned away.

 

“Damn it,” he said tightly.  “Damn it!  Shit, bugger, and _arse_.”

 

“Hey,” Michael said, trying to be tender and managing hoarse concern.  He squeezed Gavin’s shoulder.  “Hey, Gav.  Don’t worry.  We’ll figure it out.”

 

“This is all we have left to us,” Gavin said, shaking Michael off.  “This bloody useless chest.”  He groaned and tugged at his hair.  “I’m a bloody arseholin’ tit!”

 

“I don’t dispute that,” Michael said, gently.  “But I’m not going to give up, Gavin.  Not now.”

 

He reached past Gavin, into the chest, down, down, down, until he was almost inside the fucking thing.  He was half-expecting sharp, shadowy teeth to sink into his arm, but all he felt was dead air on his skin.  His fingernails scraped along the bottom, dragging through three millennia’s worth of dust, and finally—

 

“Lamp,” Michael grunted.

 

Lindsay leaned against him.  He felt her huff out a soft excited breath—

 

The lamp caught the ragged edges of blue-black scrolls.

 

Slowly and reverently, Lindsay read, “Amduat.  That Which—” she gasped “—oh!  Gavin!”

 

“I know,” Gavin said, but his voice was dull.  “That Which Awaits in the Nether.  The Book of Gates.  The Book of Caverns.  The Book of Duat.  It’s bloody standard in New Kingdom burials.  You of all people ought to know that.”

 

But Lindsay, captivated, read on.  “Herein lies the knowledge of the souls of Duat, and the knowledge of the secret souls, and the knowledge of the many gates, and the knowledge of the righteous paths of the god as he surveys the dead lands.  In the first hour of the first night, there is a river. . .”

 

Distantly, and he couldn’t tell if it was above-ground or in his own head, Michael heard the wind pick up.  The barest eerie whisper of sand.

 

“Gavin,” Lindsay said, “you were right!  This _does_ have something to do with Duat!”

 

But Gavin said, brutally, “Tear it up.  It’s useless.  It’s just a text.  It’s just bloody fairy stories.  Sod this!”

 

“C’mere,” Michael said.  “Come on, up.  Give us a minute, guys.”  And he pried Gavin away from the chest, arm around his waist, and steered him towards the doorway.

 

Gavin was taking quick, shallow breaths.  His shoulders were rigid.

 

“Gavin,” Michael said, “what were you expecting?  What did you think was in there?”

 

“Magic,” Gavin burst out.  “ _Real_ magic!  Not bloody bog-standard grave goods!”  There was a weird hiccuping catch in his voice, like he was on the verge of tears.  “Christ!  What’ve I done!”

 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Michael said, rubbing his back.  “Gavin.  Breathe.  Gavin, look at me.”

 

Gavin didn’t look at him, but he took a deep, deep breath, his ribs shifting under Michael’s hand.  

 

“So what if the text isn’t magic,” Michael went on.  “Everything in this crazy fucking place is magic.  The ground.  The rocks.  It’s here somewhere, okay, Gavin?”

 

“Michael—”

 

“Hey, I get it,” Michael said.  “It’s scary.  It’s goddamned terrifying as shit.  I know.”

 

“It’s _not_ —I don’t—” Gavin swore quietly, strangled, and went silent.

 

“You’re my boy, Gavin,” Michael said, and brushed Gavin’s cheek.  “We’ll get through it together.  Okay?”

 

Gavin didn’t reply and Michael leaned up and kissed him, and he didn’t let out a single goddamned peep about the cold marble feel of Gavin’s lips.

 

“I’ll keep the Sandman away,” Michael said, low.

 

“Hey!” Ray shouted.  “Michael!  Gavin!  Get your asses back here!  There’s a secret compartment!”

  
  
  


“Am I good, or am I good?” Lindsay said.

 

She was kneeling behind the box now, one hand pressed to the back, the other extended into the black depths of it.  “The back of the box is a lot thicker than it should be,” she explained.  “I thought that was a little weird.  Turns out part of the back panel’s made of wood.”

 

“Better watch out, Ryan,” Michael said, grinning.  “You got competition.”

 

Ryan folded his arms.  “We’ll see,” he said.

 

“I thieve for the sake of knowledge,” Lindsay said.  She rolled up her sleeves.  “Right!  Now, then. . .what secrets are you hiding?”  Under her deft hands, the back panel of the box shifted and creaked open.

 

“How the,” Ray said.  “ _What_ the.”

 

Michael squinted.  Inside the secret compartment was an improbable flower, lying sad and small on its side.  A forgotten lotus blossom.

 

“You got a space in your museum for the world’s oldest flower?” Michael said finally.

 

“Oh, shut up,” Lindsay said and socked him in the arm.  She adjusted the lamp and smiled as the edges of the flower shifted.  The petals grew hard and square and the flower started to gleam a faint, brassy yellow.

 

“Fool’s gold,” Ryan said.

 

Ray snorted.  “What, did they use all their real gold on the decorations?”

 

“It’s pretty,” Lindsay said.  “And pretty unusual.  I’ve never seen something so—”

 

“Unadorned,” Gavin said.  Michael glanced at him:  the light was back in his eyes.  “May I?” Gavin asked.

 

Lindsay eyed him suspiciously.  “If you promise not to drop-kick it into oblivion.”

 

Gavin nodded.  “I promise.  Er—sorry about that, by the way,” he added.  “Really and truly.”

 

“Well, if you must,” Lindsay said.  She plucked the rock from its compartment and handed it to Gavin, who immediately held it up to the light.

 

“Iron pyrite,” he said.  “I _see_.”

 

His hand closed around the rock and he threw back his head and laughed, and the sound of it, joyous and loud, seemed to dance around them before the walls of the chamber smothered it.

 

“Lindsay,” Gavin said, still kind of giggling, “I owe you another apology.”

 

“Don’t throw it,” Lindsay said immediately.  “Don’t you dare.  I’ll throw you.”

 

“No, no, no,” Gavin said.  “No.  You were right.  This text _is_ special.  This text, and this flower, and all those little bits of stone I so idiotically flung off into the night.  They’re so, so, so _very_ important.”

 

“Come again?” Michael said.

 

“The resin!” Lindsay said.

 

“What?” Michael said.  “Hey!”

 

Gavin had darted off into a corner, limbs flailing, almost on all fours.  He came loping back with his hands full of stone fragments again.

 

“Look at these,” he said.  “I should’ve realized.”

 

“Well, I’d say the secret compartment was the first real hint,” Lindsay said.  “I thought they were just rocks too.”

 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Michael demanded.

 

Gavin and Lindsay stopped chattering at each other and stared at him like _he_ was the crazy one.

 

“ ’S more of a hunch, innit, Michael,” Gavin said, blinking.  “But—”

 

“The rocks,” Lindsay said.  “The beads, really.  They were already loose when Gavin picked them up.  That means the string rotted.  The string rotted but the papyrus didn’t.  Why?”

 

“Because. . .string. . .sucks?” Ryan volunteered.  “String is terrible?”

 

Lindsay shook her head.  “Wrong!”

 

“Why don’t mummies rot?” Gavin asked.  “Or, more specifically, why d’you suppose the wrappings don’t rot?”

 

“Egyptian hocus pocus, the unique preservative properties of inter-dimensional sand chambers, fuck, I don’t know,” Michael said.  “Just spit it out already!”

 

“Oh!” Ray said, perking up, and then he actually fucking raised his hand and waved it around.  “Oh!  Oh!  I know!”

 

“Care to share your discovery with the rest of the class?” Michael sneered.

 

“Mister Narvaez,” Gavin said, extending an imaginary pointer.

 

“Junior,” Ray said.  “But anyway, the answer is in the resin.  The proof is in the pudding.  The _reply_ is in the _resin_.”

 

“Ray,” Michael growled.

 

“Prepare to be amazed.”  Ray held up a finger.  “So, they coat mummies in resin.  Am I right?”

 

“Right,” Lindsay said.

 

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Michael said.

 

A different finger went up in Michael’s direction.  “Getting to it.  I gather, from your reactions to said creepy black paper, that whoever put it together also coated it in resin.  The resin preserved the text which would have disintegrated otherwise.  And,” Ray continued, “I guess this wasn’t the result of some kind of hideous resin-based accident.  They coated it on purpose.  Which means it must be important.  Somehow.  Uhh.  Am I right?”

 

“Well,” Gavin said.

 

“Exactly,” Lindsay said.

 

“Great,” Michael said.  “Are you gonna read the thing down here or do we wanna take it up and show everyone?”

 

“It’s not a question of readin’, Michael,” Gavin said.

 

“It’s not?” said Michael—and Lindsay, which was kind of worrying.

 

“No,” Gavin said.  “Lindsay, resin has multiple properties.  As you know.”

 

“As I know,” Lindsay said, cautiously.

 

“One of ’em’s preservation,” Gavin said.  “One of ’em’s shine.”

 

“Stickiness,” Ray volunteered.  “Smells nice.”

 

“Er, and those,” Gavin hedged.  “But there’s another property.  Toss us a match, will you, Ryan?”

 

“Gavin!  Jesus Christ!” Lindsay said, starting.  “Ryan Haywood, you leave those matches where they are!”

 

Slowly, like an outlaw staring into the barrel of the sheriff’s gun, Ryan removed his hand from his pocket.  He looked a little disappointed.

 

“The obsidian gate,” Gavin said, leaping up and walking a circle around the box.  “The guide talks about a wall of obsidian that forms barrier between the world of the living and the world of Duat.  You have to light a fire,” he insisted.  “It’s in the guide!”

 

Lindsay scowled.  “It tells you to light a fire because it’ll be the middle of the night and you won’t be able to see where you’re going!  Nowhere in the guide does it say to _burn_ the goddamn guidebook!”

 

There was still a handful of stone-bead-fragments in the bottom of the box.  Slowly, Michael reached in and grabbed a shard.  

 

“So,” he said slowly, “these are special, or something?”

 

“These, Michael, are pieces of _flint_ ,” Gavin said triumphantly.

 

“Flint,” Michael repeated.  He was starting to see where this was going and he wasn’t sure he liked it.

 

Gavin beamed.  He held up the golden flower.  “And now we’ve got pyrite, Lindsay.  You found the fire-stone.  Flint, pyrite—”

 

“No,” Lindsay said.

 

“—all we need is something to burn.”

 

“No,” Lindsay said again.  “Nope!  That’s insane, Gavin.”

 

“Resin burns,” Gavin said.  “And cedar resin produces the sacred smoke, which you and I both know is described in the ritual of the twelfth gate.  Said gate, I may add, is made of obsidian—just like a certain ceremonial chest we've all recently encountered.  This is it, Lindsay.”

 

“Gavin, this is our only clue,” Lindsay said, very slowly, like she was talking to a child.  “Do you want to set our only clue on fire?”

 

“Lindsay, we’ve both memorized the bloody text!  Ages ago!” Gavin protested.  “And you’ve got a nice big annotated copy of it somewhere in that bloody flyin’ library of yours!”

 

“How do you know this copy doesn’t have something special?  Something secret?” Lindsay demanded, slapping the chest.

 

“That _is_ the secret,” Gavin said.  “The secret is that we don’t bloody have to bloody read it!  Unlike everythin’ else in Egyptian lore!  For once the magic isn’t in the words, it’s in the _doin_ ’!”

 

“If you’re wrong,” Ray said, slowly, “if this doesn’t work—we’re fucked.”

 

“I’m not wrong,” Gavin said.

 

“You might not be wrong, but you’re completely fucking crazy!” Lindsay said.  “Michael—”

 

Michael had been listening with his heart banging away in his chest.  He could see the confidence, the pure shining belief, in Gavin’s eyes.  And he could see the bluish cast of Gavin’s skin.

 

“Gavin,” he said.  “Look at me.”

 

This time, Gavin did, and his gaze was bright and steady.

 

“Are you sure?” Michael said.

 

“No,” Gavin admitted.  “But,” he continued, quiet, looking away then, looking down at his hands, “at the mo’ I think a fire would be just top.  I’m feelin’ a teensy bit cold.”

 

“Give him the matches,” Michael said.

  
  
  
  
  


Lindsay said a few choice words in what Michael gathered was ancient Egyptian, judging from Gavin’s quiet gasp and snicker.  Then, sighing, she said, “Aw, nuts, what the hell.”

 

“Thank you, Lindsay,” Gavin said.  He laid the papyrus back into the bottom of the chest and weighed it down with pieces of flint.  

 

“Give us a kiss, eh, love?” Gavin said to Michael suddenly.  “For luck.”

 

“C’mere, asshole,” Michael said, opening his arms.  “Whoa!” he said, as Gavin fucking folded over him and got all handsy too.  “Gavin, Jesus Christ— _mmph_ —”

 

"Aww," Lindsay said.

 

“God damn,” Ryan said, laughing.  “Get a room, you two.  Er.  Get a room that isn’t a mummification chamber.  Unless you’re into that.”  

 

“Pleasure as always, Michael,” said Gavin, unblushing.  

 

"Best time for it, I'm told," Michael said.

 

"Oh, god," Ray muttered.

 

"Matches, please, Ryan," Gavin said.

 

Ryan put his hand back into his coat and pulled out a stained and withered box of matches.  “They had a brief run-in with a river in Egypt,” he said, smiling.  His smile widened.  “And an even briefer encounter with a crocodile’s stomach.”

 

“Those aren’t gonna light," Michael said.  "Jesus, Ryan."

 

“Nah, give ’em here,” Gavin said.  “They’ll light.”

 

Under Michael’s incredulous gaze he struck a match carelessly against the box and held it up:  a thin burning thread of flame pinched between his fingers.

 

“See?” he said.  “The gift of fire, Michael!”

 

“Are we really gonna do this?” Ray asked, shifting nervously from one foot to the other.  “I mean—are we _sure_?”

 

“We should at least tell the others what we’re going to do,” Lindsay said.  “I’m sure Geoff and Griffon would appreciate a little warning before a portal to hell opens up under their tent.”

 

“Good point,” Michael said.

 

“Aw, where’s the fun in that?” Ryan said.

 

“Sometimes I wonder about you, Ryan,” Ray said.  “I just—wonder.”

 

“All right,” Michael said.  “Let’s go tell them.  Come on, Gav.  We’ll hold off on this for n—”

 

“Oh!  Smeg!” said Gavin.  Michael spun around to see him standing there, eyes bulging out of his stupid head, juggling what looked like a fucking ball of fire.  Juggling it _really_ fucking badly.

 

“Gavin!” Lindsay exclaimed, horrified.

 

“Oh!  Oh!  Bloody oggleswallopin’ arglin’ bandersnatch!” Gavin replied, possibly, and dropped the flaming box of matches straight into the chest.

 

There was a stricken silence while they all stared at each other—Michael at Gavin, with murderous intent—then, with a weird, hollow whoosh, the papyrus ignited.

 

“Are you serious right now?” Ray said.  “Are you—oh my god, Gavin.”

 

“Gavin, you goddamned motherfucking moronic piece of shit!” Michael yelled.  He dove at the box and slapped uselessly at the paper, burning his palms—

 

His ears started to ring and all the air in his lungs said _So long, asshole!_ and went gallivanting off to parts fucking unknown.

 

He could hear Ryan laughing.  

 

The entire world dissolved into purple light.  

  
  
  
  
  


That laughter again, low and unsteady and _unending_.

 

Fuck off, Michael thought, and thought it three times for emphasis, as the jackal man towered over him and he shivered and sweated in the palm of a giant dark hand.   _Fuck off.  Fuck off!_

 

Ray said, “Uhhh.  Are we dead yet?”

 

The laughter faded.  The jackal man dissolved.  He slipped into shadow, into nothingness.  He melted away into black water.

 

Michael opened his eyes.  

 

The world was more or less unchanged, except for the part where they had all apparently fallen down.  The fire had burned away into nothing.  Everything else was the same, as far as Michael could tell.  But there were still crazy spots floating and dancing in his vision and whenever he blinked, slowly, trying to clear his head, the edges of the darkness behind his eyes were seared with that hot purple light.  

 

He got up slowly, rolling onto his stomach and then creaking onto his hands and knees.

 

“Well, that did something,” Lindsay said hoarsely.  She sat up slowly, rubbing at her forehead and eyes.  “Phew!  Anyone else feel like they just took a morningstar to the face?”

 

“I was gonna say a hammer, like an actual human being,” Ray said, “but sure.”  He checked his wristwatch.  “Five to one.  We lost ten minutes.”

 

Ryan didn’t even bother getting back up.  He lay where he had fallen, groaning theatrically.

 

“The air went away,” Lindsay said.  “It did, didn’t it?  You felt that too, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Michael said, and it came out a little thinner and higher-pitched than he would have liked.  “Fuck.”

 

“Christ,” Lindsay said.  “We could have _died_.”

 

Gavin was lying on his side, eyes wide, mouth slack.  Michael would have sworn that he saw the purple light dancing in his pupils.  He was blinking slowly, taking tiny, gulping breaths.  He looked dazed.

 

“Gavin,” Michael said, shaking him.  “You stupid son of a bitch!  Are you okay?"

 

Gavin’s eyes cleared.  “Tippity toppers, Michael,” he said, and smiled, dreamily.

 

“Good,” Michael said.  He smiled back.  Then he grabbed Gavin viciously by the collar and yanked him upright, ignoring his squawk.  “I’m gonna strangle you, you asshole.  What the fuck just happened?”

 

“We opened the gate,” Gavin said.  “ _I_ opened the gate.”

 

That flash of purple again.

 

Michael bent closer, frowning.

 

Ryan screamed.

  
  
  
  


Michael screamed too, short and sharp, and fell back, releasing Gavin.

 

“Jesus fuck, Ryan,” he snapped.  “Don’t _do_ that!”

 

But—

 

“Ryan!” Lindsay said, small and frightened.

 

The noise that came out of Ryan was low and grating, like something was ripping it out of him, tearing him up from the inside.  Under and around the jagged sound Ryan’s mouth choked and gurgled.  There was foam on his lips.  His eyes rolled back; his head lolled.  He snorted and gasped.  His fists beat against the ground—he dug his heels and then the toes of his boots into the sand, arched his back—and through it all, he screamed and screamed and _screamed_.

 

“Oh my god, oh my god,” Michael said, dizzy, “what the fucking fuck—”

 

“Ryan!” Gavin said, touching him, shaking him.  “Ryan—”

 

“Get Geoff—get Griffon!” Lindsay shouted.  “Ray!  Do it!”  

 

“Oh—fuck—yeah, okay!” Ray gasped.  He got up and ran.  Michael heard him fall, heard him swear and pick himself up again.

 

Ryan’s voice was ragged now, like his throat had given out but whatever it was wouldn’t let him stop screaming.  The scream deepened into a bellow—

 

His body arched again, and his hands pounded the earth, and suddenly, awfully, he went still.

 

“The gate,” Michael said, whirling, hands on Gavin’s shoulders.  “We opened the gate.  Gavin.  Did something—was something—was there something _there_?”

 

“Oh my god,” Lindsay said.

 

“Did something get out?” Michael demanded.  “Gavin!  Was there something in there?”

 

“Yes,” Ryan said.

 

Michael's head twisted around so fast it damn near detached from his neck.

 

“ _Whoa, fuck!_ ” he screamed, and he grabbed Lindsay by the arm and caught Gavin around the neck and dragged them back, half-scuttling, half-crawling across the sand.

 

Ryan, lying peacefully on his back, watched him go with irises shot through with blood and a mouth that was suddenly too wide.

 

He looked fine, except for the way his hands flexed and twitched at his sides, and the bloody froth on his collar, and the fire of his eyes, and his shadow in the lamplight.

 

His shadow had horns.

 

“You opened the gate,” said the thing wearing Ryan’s body, singsong.  “You opened the gate.  You opened the gate; to know the paths of the god; to follow the forbidden paths of the god.”

 

“Oh, sweet Mama Narvaez,” Michael whimpered.

 

“Ryan,” Gavin said, helplessly.  “No.”

 

“In the beginning there is the horn of the West,” it said.  It sat up.  “In the end, there is darkness.”

 

“No, no, no,” Gavin said.  “Ryan—”

 

“Trespasser,” said the thing, in Ryan’s voice.  “Trespasser, bringer of chaos, I will visit the justice of the god upon you.”

 

It reached into the chest.

 

It pulled out a motherfucking ten-foot golden spear.

 

“Okay,” Michael said, “okay— _run!_ ”

  
  
  
  


_Running._

 

Michael and Lindsay pelted down the corridor, dragging Gavin, who evidently had a death wish.

 

“We can’t leave him,” Gavin was yelling.  “Not like that!  Ryan!  Michael, we can’t!  Michael, we have to save him!  Michael, please!”

 

“He’s twice my size and possessed by the devil!” Michael shouted at Gavin.  “And he has a spear!  What the hell do you want me to do?”

 

“We can talk t’ him!” Gavin said.  “Bring him back t’ his senses!”

 

“ _SPEAR_ ,” Michael shouted.

 

“You have a gun!” Gavin exclaimed.  “You have bloody four guns, Michael!”

 

“Are you telling me to _shoot Ryan_?” Michael demanded.

 

“Well, no,” Gavin said, “but seein’ as you’re so damn’ fixated on the bloody spear—”

 

“Shut the fuck up and run, asshole!” Michael screamed at him.  “God damn it, Lindsay—”

 

She’d let go of Gavin and come to a complete fucking stop in the middle of the corridor.

 

Michael made a violent gesture intended to convey such tender sentiments as “What the fucking fuck do you think you’re doing!” and “Get a fucking move on!”

 

Lindsay ignored him.

 

“None of this makes any sense!” she said.

 

“ _MAGIC_ ,” Michael shouted.  “Oh my god, fucking Christ, what is it with you two?  Magic!  The answer is always magic!  Will you move your motherfuckin’ legs so we can get the fuck out of this place before the Cow God puts us on a fucking skewer?”

 

“No, _not_ that,” Lindsay shouted, stamping.  “I mean the horns!  The goddamn horns!  There’re no bovine demons in the Netherworld, cows are _good_ —I’ve never read about this, I don’t _understand_ —”

 

“Seriously?” Michael yelled.  “Ryan just turned into a fucking _demon bull_ and _that’s_ what you’re worried about?”

 

“It just doesn’t make sense!” Lindsay yelled back.  “Oh, fuck!”

 

Not-quite-Ryan was coming towards them.  He was moving like a puppet on a string, head flopping this way and that.  But those red eyes were staring right at them.

 

“Ryan!” Gavin said, wriggling under Michael's arm like an anxious puppy.  “Ryan, can you hear me?  ’S me, Gavin!  Put the spear down, Ry—oh, knobs!”

 

“Jesus Christ!” Michael shrieked.  "Lindsay, _get down!"_

 

He threw Gavin to the ground and hit the deck.

 

The spear whistled overhead.  But by the time they’d scrambled back to their feet, it was somehow back in Ryan’s hand.

 

Ryan stared impassively down at it.  

 

“Too slow,” he said.

 

“Hah!” Michael said, which, in retrospect, was a pretty fucking stupid thing to do.

 

That impassive red gaze transferred to Michael.  

 

“There are other ways,” Ryan said peaceably.  “I call upon the West.  I call upon the East.”  His mouth gaped open.  “I call upon the North and South.  I do the bidding of the Lord of the Black Land.”  

 

This time he bellowed, and the dead air around them stirred.  Currents and eddies ran over the sand and became a breeze, then a wind.  The wind became a vortex.

 

Through it all the thing in Ryan’s body just watched them, unblinking, red-eyed, while it stretched Ryan’s mouth impossibly wide, and the vortex hissed and screamed.

 

Behind him, a whirling cluster of golden beams gathered, throwing out light and heat like a small sun.

 

“Oh!” Lindsay shouted, over the noise of the wind, hair whipping around her face.  She jabbed a finger excitedly at the disc.  “Oh!  Aser-hapi!  Of _course_!”

 

“Great!” Michael shouted, grabbing her by the elbow, and hooking Gavin once more around the neck.  “Write a book about it!  Write it _later_!  Let’s go, people—move it!”

 

“Right!” Lindsay said.  

 

“Aaaaah!” Gavin said.

  
  
  


 

The wind followed them, scoring their clothes and opening up sharp little wounds on their skin.  And under the shrill, whistling sound of the wind they could hear Ryan’s footsteps, slow and measured, and the dragging of the spear-butt through the sand and dust.

 

They could feel the heat of the sun-disc on their backs.

 

“Go, go, go,” Michael shouted.  He pushed Gavin through the half-collapsed entrance of the secret passageway and gave Lindsay a boost up.

 

Hands reached out to grab him and help him through.

 

“Aser-hapi is a manifestation of the Apis bull in the Netherworld,” Lindsay panted, hauling Michael to his feet.  They sprinted for the rope ladder.

 

Gavin chimed in, breathlessly.  “A servant of the sun god, Amun-Ra—a guardian of Ma’at, the divine order.  Servant of Osiris—”  

 

"So, the horns make sense?" Michael said.

 

"Kind of," Lindsay gasped.  "It doesn't exactly _fit_ existing theory, but, well—given the circumstances, I'm willing to be flexible!"  She choked down a long breath.  "Thing is, Aser-hapi is one of the good guys!  Like Bastet and Hathor and Sakhmet.  They’re all guardians.  That’s what I don’t understand!”

 

“Forget it for now,” Michael said.  “How do we get Ryan back?”

 

“Well,” Lindsay said, “it happened just after we opened the gate, so I’d assume closing the gate will return Aser-hapi to the Netherworld—and restore Ryan, hopefully unharmed—”

 

“No!” Gavin said.  “We have to keep the gate open!  It’s the only way we can lure the—send the Sandman to the other side!”

 

“—and that means figuring out how to close the gate,” Lindsay finished.  She groaned.  “But no one seems to have thought that far ahead.”

 

“I didn’t think opening one mincey little gate would bring divine retribution crashin’ down on our heads!” Gavin said.

 

“You said the same goddamn thing about the box, you fuck!” Michael said.  “Oh my god!  I don’t understand why we keep _listening_ to you!  Oh my god, we’re a bunch of fucking idiots!”

 

“Well, it worked, didn’t it!” Gavin argued.  "I was right!  About Duat, about everything!"

 

“Were you, Gavin?” Michael snapped.  “Were you really?”

 

“Michael!”

 

“Now, now, children,” Lindsay said.  “Let’s just get to the others and figure out where to go from there.  Ray probably woke them up already.  We can head them off—”

 

“I don’t think Ryan’s gonna wait that long,” Michael said, sending a quick glance around the ruins.  The temple had survived three thousand years, but it was done now.  Kaput.  A little puff of Not-Ryan’s freaky wind vortex and the thing was finished.   _They_ were finished.

 

“Well, he can’t fly, anyway,” Lindsay shouted down from halfway up the ladder.  She paused.  “Uh, I hope.”

 

“Yeah,” Michael said grimly.  “We hope.”  He held the ladder steady so that Gavin could hop on.  “Don’t fall, baby.”

 

“I’ll have you know I have the climbing ability of an English red squirrel,” Gavin said.  “I am graceful and luxuriantly furred.  Hup!”  

 

“Uh huh,” Michael said.  The ladder was swaying like crazy thanks to Gavin’s not-at-all-squirrel-like climbing, but Lindsay was out of the hole by then and lying flat over the edge, arms extended and ready to help him up, so Michael wasn’t too worried.  

 

He turned back to keep an eye on the door, one hand on the rope.  It was getting pretty fucking hot down there, and he was starting to sweat.  He wasn’t sure if he was imagining it, but he could hear the wind.

 

“See, Michael!” Gavin called.  “Flawless execution!”  

 

He was at the last few rungs of the ladder, his untucked shirt fluttering behind him.  As Michael watched, he reached out and caught Lindsay’s hand and swung himself up out of the hole.

 

“Come on, Michael!” Lindsay shouted.

 

“Yeah,” Michael said, slowly.  “Right.  Sorry.”

 

Slower still, he put his hand to his side and felt around for the medallion.  It wasn’t there.  He wasn’t sure why he thought it would be, since he’d just seen it:  the medallion, _his_ medallion, dancing and spinning as it dangled from Gavin’s belt.


	14. taller and thinner tales

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A poor reward for your patience and encouragement. I wrote most of this listening to Uptown Funk on repeat. I was really tempted to call this chapter MMM WHATCHA SAY but I nobly refrained. Praise me.
> 
> (It’s a bit late, but I wanted to draw everyone’s attention to the insanely awesome art that [mmmonstre](http://mmmonstre.tumblr.com) has drawn for this fic: [link 1](http://tinyurl.com/mwrc7t5), [link 2](http://tinyurl.com/poz7hzp).)
> 
> It’s been so long I thought we could all use a recap. (Although uh, I kind of went back and did some rewrites so I guess if you have a free afternoon or evening, a reread wouldn’t go amiss.)
> 
>  **prologue and ch. 1** : Michael, our rough and ready young adventurer, goes into desert with Ray. Oh no, the desert is evil! There’s a statue of a jackal god and that statue is evil too! Ray picks up a medallion and gives it to Michael, because picking up cursed objects always turns out well. Hauntings and nightmares and generally a not good time are had by all. 
> 
> **ch.1-3** : Michael and Ray meet Gavin, who says he knows how to get back to the city and break the curse! They go back to the desert, this time with well-armed and slightly tipsy reinforcements, including Gunner Griffon, Leader Geoff, Creepy Ryan, Steady Jack, and Archaeologist Lindsay! 
> 
> **ch.4-7** : The desert is still evil! Gavin opens a box, and the Sandman emerges and tries to kill them, to no one’s surprise. They hurry back to civilization. Sex is enjoyed on a boat (I feel like there’s an SNL reference in there).
> 
>  **ch.8-10** : Gus, another archaeologist, gestures vehemently with a lot of books at a lot of people and reveals that Gavin has accidentally cursed himself and the entire world to sandy doom and destruction in the form of a tall, thin, black shadow with glowing purple eyes. No one is surprised, again. The Sandman tries to kill them. They survive and fly a plane into the desert, because that’s what you do when the desert is trying to murder you. 
> 
> **ch.10-13** : They find another box. Because this story would be no fun if people made responsible, intelligent decisions, they decide to open the box to unseal an ancient Egyptian magical gate of doom and destruction. OOPS NOW EVERYTHING IS EVIL. Including Ryan and possibly Gavin.

 

_Egypt, desert, ass o'clock._

The wind was howling in Michael’s ears as he and Lindsay rolled up the ladder and stowed it. He felt dazed, stupid; he kept shaking his head, trying to clear it. The medallion was filling his vision, spinning, spinning.

 

“There are rituals to appease Aser-hapi,” Lindsay was saying. “I just don’t know if we have all the necessary components—”

 

The medallion had been Gavin’s from the beginning.  Michael only been borrowing it.  That had been the unspoken agreement, hadn’t it?  

 

It didn’t make sense now.  Not when Michael thought about it, when he finally just fucking focused his thoughts and really considered.  Why did they all agree that he was the one to carry it, when it had always been Gavin’s?  

 

Unless—

 

“All right, Michael?” Gavin said, peering at him.

 

“No,” Michael said. “Gavin—”

 

“Guys, come on, let’s goooo _oh_ no,” Lindsay said.

 

“Oh, god damn it,” Michael said, flat, as white light erupted through new, sudden fracture lines in the floor, followed shortly by Ryan himself, in an explosion of dust and rock, like some kind of horned torpedo.

 

He hadn’t come through the floor unscathed: he was bleeding freely from the nose and forehead, and the blood on his face gave the impression of a mask.

 

On the whole, he didn’t seem too bothered. He raised the spear, a creation of pure heat and light, and glided forward.

 

“He’s in the air!” Gavin shrieked.

 

“What the _fuck_ ,” Michael said, throwing himself at Gavin and knocking him over. A beam of smoking white light hummed by, leaving crumbling stone in its wake. “We’re not finished,” he said hotly into Gavin’s ear, while Gavin wriggled and squawked.

 

Lindsay’s voice rose, strident and furious, through the dust cloud. “Ryan! Stop punching holes in my dig site, you bastard!”

 

“Lindsay, run!” Michael bellowed at her, shoving Gavin away and rolling to avoid a spear thrust. “I’ll distract him. Get outta here!”

 

“No way!” Lindsay shouted. “I’m not going to leave you here to—”

 

“Get out of here, god damn it,” Michael screamed. “I can handle Ryan. Get the others!”

 

He flung up the rifle with both hands to defend against a downward sweep and staggered backwards.

 

Lindsay still wasn’t fucking moving. “Michael—”

 

“Grain,” Gavin shouted. “Grain, Lindsay! A biscuit’ll do—that filthy tack Jack is always carryin’ around—”

 

“The ritual of divine bread!” Lindsay exclaimed. “Of course! Good one, Gavin!”

 

“Yeah, bring back a loaf, Lindsay, Ryan’ll toast it for us,” Michael yelled, “we’ll have a goddamn picnic!”

 

“Shut up, Michael!” Lindsay shouted. “Stall him! Don’t die!” And off she ran, fast and sturdy.

 

“Here’s hopin’,” Michael said grimly. He and Ryan were squaring off. The whole thing was reminding him unpleasantly of a schoolyard brawl.

 

Even bleeding, even with that terrifying fucking light burning off his body and the long, arching shadow of horns behind his head and the inhuman spark in his eyes, Ryan still looked like Ryan.

 

And Michael was the asshole who’d brought pistols to a knife-fight.

 

“Stall him,” Michael muttered to himself. Stall him, slow him, keep him away from Gavin. Punch the demon out of his goddamn body.

 

“Better back off, Ryan!” Gavin said. Incredibly, unbelievably, he was rolling up his sleeves.

 

“Are you insane?” Michael demanded. “Oh, fuck!”

 

A swipe from Ryan sent the rifle flying into the air and knocked him to his knees.

 

“Michael!”

 

“Stay back!”

 

Gavin was hopping up and down. “Michael, I can help!”

 

“Over my dead body, you little shit!” Michael snarled.

 

Ryan brought the spear down for another strike and Michael grabbed at the golden haft—

 

And let go of it just as quickly, swearing, the skin of his palms and fingers red and shiny and swollen with the beginnings of a burn.

 

“Fuck!” Michael said, dancing back. He stared at Ryan, aghast, and hoped against hope that he was imagining the smell of burning flesh. “You’re hurting him, you son of a bitch!”

 

Gavin threw a rock at Ryan’s chest. It crumbled before it could even touch him, apparently under the sheer force of his creepy golden gaze, and the fragments bounced off him like raindrops.

 

Ryan’s head turned, creaking and unnatural, towards Gavin.

 

“Creature of chaos,” said the thing in Ryan’s body. “It will be my pleasure to return you to the void.”

 

“Why don’t you try tickling him next, genius?” Michael said angrily.

 

“Servant of Osiris,” Gavin said—squeaked, really, as Ryan began raising the spear again. “We mean no harm, we’re not really trespassin’—I mean I s’ppose we are, but it’s temporary, yeah? Just passin’ through, no real damage—no? Ah, um, right—”

 

“ _Hraaaagh_ ,” screamed Michael, running at Ryan, smashing his head into Ryan’s torso, bull-like.

 

“Michael!” Gavin said. “I’m tryin’ t’ make a point, Michael!”

 

“Well, fucking stand somewhere else and make it!” Michael shouted. “Look out!”

 

He climbed Ryan like a monkey and grabbed him by the ears, fingers slipping in the blood and sweat—and _jerked_ —

 

A beam of vibrating light poured into the darkness above, as Gavin dove for cover. Chunks of rock fell sizzling to the sand, which glimmered, suddenly, with newly formed glass.

 

“I know you’re in there, Ryan Haywood,” Gavin said loudly, emerging from behind a pillar with his hands outstretched. “You’d hurt a fly, but you wouldn’t hurt _me_. You couldn’t.”

 

“Don’t tempt him,” Michael shouted. He twitched Ryan’s head to the left, diverting another humming beam into the floor.

 

“Will you stop jockeyin’ his skull around like a giddy bloody chiropractor—”

 

“He’s gonna fucking evaporate you!” Michael shouted.

 

“You’ll bring the entire place crashin’ down around our ears at this rate!” Gavin retorted.

 

“Why don’t you ask him nicely,” Michael said, flailing uselessly at Ryan’s face and shoulders in an attempt to put him in a chokehold. “Pretty please will you stop trying to murder us all, Ryan, and let’s all go and have a cup of strong—tea—and— _ginger fucking—sticky—cake_ —”

 

“Michael!”

 

For a second he was weightless, floating, and then Ryan let go of his throat. He rolled and rolled, skidding to the lip of the hole, and lay there gasping as pain sparked down his spine. His sleeve had burned away where the spear had made contact—the skin on his forearm was raw and hot—his swollen hands stung.

 

“Gavin,” Michael wheezed, on his hands and knees, struggling to get up—

 

Ryan kicked him flat and pinned him as he lay gasping, gritty boot pressed to this throat.

 

“Your interference disappoints me,” said the thing in Ryan’s body. “I will send you back to your master.”

 

It was funny, Michael thought, how much it still sounded like Ryan, cool and sardonic and every so slightly like Jack—

 

The spear began, slowly and gently and inevitably, to descend.

 

“ _Michael_!”

 

 

 

 

There was a deep, hollow boom—the sound of a bell falling from its tower, miles away.

 

Gavin grunted, as if he was trying to lift something heavy, and then he _yelled_ , throwing his hands upward and outward, every finger stretched taut. Torrents of sand rushed past Michael, swooped over their heads and thundered down.

 

Wave after wave of stinging sand buffeted Ryan. He was stumbling—he was being knocked back—

 

Gavin let out a whoop. “Take that! Take that, you miserable body-snatchin’ sod! Give Ryan back or I’ll strip you to the bone! I’ll feed you to the scorpions and crocodiles, I’ll turn you into _dust_!”

 

The chamber rang with his laughter, fluty and delighted like a child’s. “On your knees, wretch!”

 

“Enough,” Ryan said.

 

Amid the spinning sand, there was a flash of gold.

 

 

  

 

They fell together, the hole rising up to swallow them. Michael thought he was screaming, but he couldn’t be sure. It wasn’t a long drop. He landed easily, rolled to his feet, and fell again, dizzy, sick. He went to Gavin on his hands and knees, covered him with his body, waited until the heat of Ryan peering over the edge softened, shrank, until the dragging footsteps faded away to silence.

 

The spear was planted in Gavin like it had a claim to him.

 

Gavin’s eyes were wide open, his mouth slack.

 

“Ouch,” he murmured.

 

“Oh my god,” Michael said. “Okay. Okay. Hang on, Gavin. Hang in there.”

 

“I’m all right, Michael,” Gavin said.

 

“You’re—you’re not, you’re really not,” Michael said, voice cracking. “Jesus Christ—”

 

“Michael.”

 

“Don’t move, baby, ” Michael said. “Griffon’ll be here soon. Don’t worry. I’m here, okay? I’m—just listen to me, listen to my voice. I’m here, Gavin. Stay with me.”

 

“Michael, help me take it out,” Gavin said. 

 

“Gavin, sweetheart, Gav,” Michael said, squeezing his cold hands as they lay wrapped around the spear-shaft. “I can’t do that, baby.”

 

Gavin’s mouth twisted. He started to laugh.

 

Then, with a small, fluttery gasp, brushing away Michael’s restraining hands, he pulled the spear out.

 

 

 

 

It slipped out of his grasp and fell to the sand, oozing greasy light into every crack and crease around them.

 

Michael had shouted, pressed his hands down in a vain attempt to stem the bleeding—

 

Dimly, he registered that his hands were dry.

 

The heat of the spear might have cauterized the wound, he thought, saved Gavin’s life. Lindsay would be back any second with reinforcements—they could get Gavin to the plane, fly him back to Thebes, and maybe afterwards Griffon wouldn’t shoot him, and he’d never let Gavin out of his sight again—

 

Slowly, gingerly, he moved his hands, peeled back Gavin’s shirt.

 

Even as he watched, unable to believe what he was seeing, the torn flesh and skin rippled, knitted together.

 

Gavin sat up, rubbing his stomach.

 

“Sorry to worry you, love,” he said easily. He was still gurgling a bit, eyes crinkled up with mirth. He kissed Michael once, twice, deeply. “Tried to tell you. Sorry, Michael.”

 

“What the fuck,” Michael said. “What—”

 

“I’m all right, darlin’,” Gavin said. He tapped his stomach. “See? Good as new.”

 

“What happened to you?” Michael said. “You didn’t even—you didn’t even _bleed_.”

 

“There’s nothin’ to explain, Michael,” Gavin said cheerfully. “Just the benefits of bein’ almost dead. Speakin’ of—let’s lay low, yeah? He might be back. For the murder weapon and all. Heh.” He was giggling again, smiling at Michael like they were sharing some kind of joke.  “It’s all right, Michael."

 

Michael recoiled. The sickening fear, the sweeping relief—those feelings were gone now, replaced by a confusion that was rapidly being molded into deep, molten anger, burning hot in his belly.

 

“It’s not _all right_ ,” he said. “What the fuck did you do? The sand—you controlled it. You didn’t say anything. It just—obeyed you. Gavin, what is this? What— _are_ you?”

 

Gavin’s smile widened. “I am occupyin’ a liminal space,” he said. “I walk the border between life and death. I toe the line. I am, in a word, Michael, _invincible_.”

 

 

 

Michael heard him, heard his voice echoing as if down a long dark corridor. And he saw—

 

He saw Gavin, younger, softer and ganglier, even more wild-haired, shielding his nose and mouth from the whirling sand with borrowed Bedouin headgear, kneeling down in the sand at the foot of the statue of Anubis—both lapis eyes intact—reaching out to close his trembling hands around the medallion.

 

Gavin, surrounded by the hunters, smiling at Geoff and Griffon and Jack and Ryan and being smiled at fondly in return—

 

Crowing, triumphant, unlocking the black box and sealing their fates—

 

Gavin, all alone in the middle of the sunstruck desertscape.

 

Gavin, curled up beside him being rocked to sleep by the drought-docile river, Gavin’s lips on his throat, hot living hands on his skin.

 

Gavin, just now, magnificent, shouting, fingers rigid, controlling the sands—holding sodden matches and bright fire in his upturned palms—

 

_Does it please you? This form?_

 

 

 

“Did you know this would happen?” Michael said. “Is that why you took the medallion?”

 

Gavin’s smile slipped. “What?” he said.

 

“Answer me,” Michael said.

 

“Michael,” Gavin started.

 

“Why didn’t you just—” he struggled, swallowed “—why didn’t you just _ask_?  We came fuckin’ skipping back into this godforsaken possessed desert because you asked. Why didn’t you just say, ‘Oi, Micoo’, c’n I have a look at the shiny magical artifact, ’s very important in a totally unspecified way, because ten years ago I read eighteen fucking books in ancient fucking Greek and have all the fuckin’ answers’—”

 

“No,” Gavin said.  “Michael—”

 

“Why did you take it?” Michael said.   

 

Gavin was very pale in the flickering light, but still kind of smiling.  His voice came slowly.  “It’s solid gold,” he said at last.  “Why wouldn’t I pinch it?  For m’self, I mean.”

 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Michael said.  “ _Pinch_ it?  It was yours to begin with!  You found it!  Those horsemen stole it, you said so yourself—you—”

 

He stopped.

 

“Holy fuck,” he said.  

 

“Michael,” Gavin said.

 

“You lying piece of shit,” Michael said.

 

“Michael!”

 

“No, shut up, shut the fuck up,” Michael snarled.  “You listen to me.  You went out into the desert and you found _nothing_.  There was no city.  No city, no medallion.  Just miles and miles of sand in every fucking direction.  Sand and blood.  So you went back to Cairo.  Am I right, Gavin?  You went back to Cairo and kicked your heels, followed the rumors, and then we waltzed right in to your fucking flytrap, me and Ray, a pair of idiots, waving that fucking medallion around, asking questions—”

 

“Now hang on a minute, Michael!“

  
  


 

_Ray says you’ve got something of mine.  That medallion around your neck, yeah?_

 

 _The city changes.  The city_ moves _.  I’m the only one who knows where it is._

  
  


 

“And you _lied_!” Michael shouted.  “You lied to us!  Am I right, Gavin?”

 

“Michael—”

 

“All that bullshit about being the map, about the jackal man—you were lying through your fucking teeth!  It was easy enough—you fucking swallowed the Oxford fucking Encyclopedia of Egypt-fucking-tology when you were six years old!  And we wouldn’t know any better!  We didn’t know shit—you saw that right away!  But the medallion found us, and the city found us, so you figured you’d follow the fucking American fucking idiots—the city’d turn up again, just like the books said—

 

“Oh my god,” Michael said, “that’s why you were being such an asshole about Lindsay.  I thought you were jealous.  But you were scared she’d see right through you!”

 

“That’s bollocks,” Gavin said angrily.  “All right.  I admit it.  When we came here with Geoff and the rest it was the first time I’d set foot in this city.  Fine.  We made it though, didn’t we?  We found your city, so what’s your bloody problem?”

 

“The city is empty as fuck,” Michael shouted.  “Someone plucked it clean a thousand fucking years ago!”

 

“You don’t give a toss about treasure!” Gavin shouted back.  “You and I both know—”

 

“Who opened the box, Gavin?” Michael demanded.  “I swear to God, you’re like a fucking _plague of Egypt_ —”

 

“Right, all right, so I made a few bloody mistakes—”

 

“A few mistakes?” Michael shouted.  “A few?  Those weren’t mistakes, they were a colossal fucking disaster—”  

 

“Will you stop bloody shoutin’ at me!”

 

“They weren’t mistakes,” Michael repeated, lower.

 

“ _Thank_ you,” Gavin said primly.  

 

“Oh my god,” Michael said.  “Oh my god.”

 

He swayed, blinded by realization, put a hand to his face.

 

“Michael?” Gavin had quieted down too.

 

“Holy shit,” Michael said.  “Oh, holy fucking shit.  You knew.  About the Sandman, the heart.  The curse.  You—you always knew. You _wanted_ —”

 

He saw something flicker in Gavin’s eyes—neither anger nor confusion but a strange kind of reluctance, and then, slowly, resignation.  It was like Gavin started to fold up from the inside.

 

And Michael fucking _ignited_.

 

“Holy fuck,” Michael said, “you just fucked us all, you didn’t even stop to think about it—”

 

“No,” Gavin said, starting.  “No, Michael, I—I just wanted—”

 

“That thing is a monster, Gavin,” Michael shouted.  “It’s a goddamn demon, not a fucking _djinni_!  You don’t get three wishes!  You get us all killed!”

 

“I know what I’m bloody doin’, Michael!” Gavin said.

 

Michael shouted him down.  “What was I, Gavin, just a convenient fuck?  You needed to relieve some pressure along the way?  Or—” his voice was cracking, tightening “—yeah.  Yeah, I get it.  I get it, Gavin.  You needed someone to wear the medallion.  You couldn’t be the one having nightmares.  You needed to _think_.  Stay one step ahead of the whole damn outfit.  And there I was, a complete fucking moron ripe for the picking, so goddamn thirsty for a sip of you—how fucking lucky for you!”

 

“Michael!”

 

“Fuck, Gavin—why didn’t you just—why didn’t you just tell us?  Why didn’t you just—just— _talk_ to me—”  The words were pouring out of him now, scalding his mouth.  “We both know all you had to do was ask and I would have given it to you, I would have fucking handed it right the fuck over, I would have—I—I—I would have given anything to you.”

 

Gavin just looked at Michael, wordless, unblinking.  His eyes were dull and dark, reflecting no light.  His face was the color of old paper.

 

“All right,” he said finally.  “Give it to me now, Michael.  I’ll have it legit.  Say it’s mine, Michael.”

 

Against the glow of the spear, Gavin’s shadow was black and thin and stretched.

 

He reached out a grasping hand, his eyes fixed hungrily on Michael’s lips.

 

Michael punched him.

 

 

 

 

Gavin tumbled backwards.

 

“All right,” he said, rubbing his jaw and wincing. “S’ppose I deserved that.”

 

The blow had left a red mark on his face, but it was fading quickly, dulling back to withered parchment.

 

“You _used_ me,” Michael said.

 

“No!” Gavin exclaimed, reaching for him. “No, that’s not—I mean, all right, maybe in the beginnin’, Michael, but I promise you—”

 

“It was never about—about helping us,” Michael said. This was agony. He was being burned from the inside out. “Fuck, Gavin. We’ve been fucking killing ourselves, trying to keep you alive. Geoff and Griffon, Lindsay—all of us.”

 

“Michael, listen to me!”

 

“I’m done listening to you,” Michael said. “I’m done—I’m done, fuck, get your fucking dead hands off me.”

 

“Michael,” Gavin said, small.

 

“The medallion’s yours now.” Michael went on talking, fast and flat, to stop the sound of his name on Gavin’s lips. He tried to look Gavin in the eye again and turned away because the sight of him was like a knife between his ribs. “I bestow it upon you, or whatever the fuck. It’s yours. Use it, burn it, _eat_ it.  I don't care.  Just—” He sucked in a long, shuddering breath. “Just get Ryan back safe.  You owe him that much.”

  
There was a short, miserable silence.

 

“Right,” Gavin said. “I should’ve—well—right.”

 

He stood up, slowly, sand crunching underfoot. Michael felt the cold press of Gavin’s hand on his shoulder, brushing the nape of his neck, and he couldn’t shake him off. He sat there, hunched, Gavin’s fingers on his skin.

 

“I’m sorry,” Gavin said, at length.  “Be seein’ you, Michael.”

 

Michael heard him go.  He knew Gavin was going back down—back into the depths of the temple, to the gate, with nothing but the medallion in his fist and whatever arcane secrets he had in his brain.  

 

Maybe he paused at the end of the corridor, waiting, listening for profanity and the sound of running feet and Michael’s hand on his shoulder.  

 

_You’re my boy, Gav—we’ll get through it together._

 

But Michael was rooted to the fucking spot, breathing hard.  His legs wouldn’t move, his fucking ribs were ten sizes too small, aching and aching and aching.  He screwed his eyes shut, but he could still see Gavin:  his blank, sunken face and the tiny, pathetic gleam in his hand.

  
“Fuck,” he said.

 

 

 

_Hours later, maybe.  He didn't know.  He didn't know anything._

 

He saw Lindsay’s face like he was seeing her for the first time, the red hair like a halo. There was dust and grime on her cheeks, and she looked angry, but her face relaxed when she saw him sitting cross-legged in the pit.

 

“Ray, over here!” she called, over her shoulder. “Quick!”

 

Michael finished wrapping the remains of his jacket around the spear and knotted the sleeves around his neck. He got to his feet. When they unfurled the ladder over the lip of the hole, he climbed it obediently, dragging himself up, slowly, painfully, arms and legs like lead weights, the spear hot against his back. He grasped Ray’s reaching hand, let Ray and Lindsay hoist him up and out.

 

“All right, bro?” Ray said.

 

Michael couldn’t speak. He nodded, and Ray grinned, laughed. Said, “That’s what I’m talking about,” and clapped Michael on the back.

 

“Where’s Geoff?” Michael managed, finally.

 

“Establishin’ a perimeter,” Lindsay said, breathless but triumphant. She had been running hard. “We saw Ryan for a second,” she explained. “Well—we saw something glowin’, I just assumed. But he left us alone. I think they’re tryin’ t’ chase him down. They’re all here,” Lindsay said, “drunk as skunks and mad as hell. You got his spear, huh? You can come on out, Gavin,” she called. “Coast’s clear.”

 

Michael didn’t say anything, and Lindsay looked sharply at him, and then past him, and her eyes widened.

 

“Michael,” she said.

 

Michael felt his face beginning to crumple and pulled it back together with painful effort. He cleared his throat, bit at his lip, eyes smarting.

 

“Michael,” Lindsay said, slowly, “where’s Gavin?”

 

“Gone,” Michael said.

 

Lindsay looked at him in horror.  “Gone?” she repeated.  “What?  Oh my god, was it—did Ryan—”

 

“No,” Michael said.  “He lied.  I mean, he left.”

 

She stared at him.  “What?” she said again.

 

“I have to talk to Geoff,” Michael said. “Ray—”

 

Ray ducked down, put himself under Michael’s shoulder and hoisted him up. “I got you, Michael,” he said. “That’s it. Lean on me, brother.”

 

Lindsay was still standing there, still staring. “What do you mean, he left?” she said. “What do you mean, he _lied_?”

 

“You said I could punch him,” Michael mumbled to Ray. “In the mouth. Twice, if I wanted.”

 

“Yeah, bro, yeah,” Ray said, soothingly. “Come on, let’s get you to Griffon.”

 

 

  

 

“Michael!”

 

It was a hero’s welcome, in a way. Jack stayed back, keeping watch at the mouth of the temple. Geoff and Griffon crowded around him, the smell of booze sharp and strong on their clothes.

 

“Let’s get you up to speed,” Geoff said. He handed Michael his flask and Michael poured a long, burning drink down his throat, and then Griffon had her hand on his chin and was tilting his head up and shining a light into his eyes.

 

“Gavin’s missing,” Lindsay said urgently. “Michael said—”

 

“Geoff,” Michael said. “Geoff, I need—”

 

Griffon said, “He’s fine.  Pulse is a little erratic, but given the circumstances. . .”

 

“Geoff—”

 

“Okay, Jonesy, okay, cool it,” Geoff said. “I’m listening.”

 

“He lied, Geoff,” Michael said.  “About the gold, about being here before, about everything. Geoff, he knew about the curse and he did it anyway, he went ahead and fucking did it.”

 

Geoff sighed and scratched his head.

 

“Michael,” he said, finally. “Can I tell you a story?”

 

Michael looked dully at him, said nothing.

 

Nodding, Geoff went on. “It starts a little while ago. In England.”

 

“Geoff,” Lindsay tried. “I don’t think—”

 

“Help me out, will ya, Tuggey?” Geoff said.  “You know about myths, right?  Ever hear anything about a lost city?  Before you joined the outfit, I mean.”

 

“Of course,” Lindsay said.  “Every tradition has one.  El Dorado, Hamunaptra, Shangri-La.  But I don’t see what—”

 

“How’d you find out about them?” Geoff asked.  “Deep down in Texas.  You read about ’em?”

 

“Well, yeah,” Lindsay said.  “Went to the library every chance I got. Geoff—”

 

“This story is about this idiot kid growin’ up in a little place called Oxford,” Geoff said, holding up a hand. “His dad’s an archaeologist. Roman fortresses. Burial mounds. He’s smart, just like his dad, and as soon as he can read, his dad lets him go through the whole library. And he reads every chance he gets, too, Lindsay, just like you used to.”

 

“Geoff, Ryan could come back any minute,” Lindsay said. “You didn’t see him. He’s unstoppable. Whatever's in him, the bull, it has power over the four winds. We can’t stay here.”

 

“Jack’s keepin’ an eye out,” Geoff said, easily. “Just sit tight a mo’, Lindsay.

 

“Anyway,” he went on. “This kid grows up readin’ all these books. He wants to be just like his old man. But he doesn’t like to sit still, he gets in trouble, he steals. He has a best friend, another reader, only this one wants to be like good old King Arthur. After a while they aren’t content to fence with sticks and butter knives by the river. They’ve seen the real deal in glass cases at the museum. One day, they hear the old man talking about this ancient burial mound. They hear about a sword.”

 

“There was a cave-in,” Michael said. “Geoff, I know. He told me.”

 

“Oh, yeah?” Geoff said.

 

  

 

 

It started in the hospital, after the cave-in, Geoff told him.

 

"He started readin’ about this place, this city of the god of the dead. Black walls, black dogs. He never stopped reading. It was an obsession. The first time we met, that gig, he was in Luxor trying to steal some manuscripts.

 

“He told me a story once,” Geoff said. “About a priest, minor nobility. Nuts. Tried to kill a local ruler and create his own dynasty.”

 

“Wait,” Lindsay said. “I know this story.”

 

“Thought you might," Geoff said.

 

“It happened in the time of Ramses the Great,” Lindsay said. “The governor of Dakhla died, of disease, I think. The priests rose up against his replacement.”

 

“It was more than that,” Geoff said. “There was a ringleader. Weird name. Beloved of some god or another.”

 

“Mer-en-Sutekh,” Lindsay said.

 

“Sure,” Geoff said.

 

“I don’t think his name survived,” Lindsay said. “That was the cult—Set’s cult. They were all beloved of Set.” She frowned. “But the rebellion was wiped out within a month—just a footnote in a long and glorious reign.”

 

“It was more than that,” Griffon said. Michael turned to look at her, surprised. Her face was blank, her eyes distant. She was looking into a memory, her right hand curved as though around a glass. “The head priest lost his mind. He murdered the old governor’s son. Dismembered him. That’s what Gavin told us.”

 

“Ramses didn’t take that too well, I guess,” Lindsay said.

 

“He was invincible,” Geoff said. “Gavin read these stories, these legends about this guy. How the pharaoh’s people sent assassins after him, then soldiers, then magicians. He was untouchable.”

 

“Because of the medallion,” Michael said.

 

“No,” Geoff said. “The medallion belonged to the guy who put him down.”

 

 

 

_Give it to me now, Michael.  I’ll have it legit.  Say it’s mine, Michael._

 

 

 

“You’re batshit fucking crazy,” Michael said. “Why didn’t you stop him? Why didn’t you warn us?”

 

Geoff looked at Michael, a long, appraising look. “Did Gavin tell you what happened down there? In the barrow?”

 

“He doesn’t remember,” Michael said, but Geoff was shaking his head.

 

“He was so scared,” Geoff said. “He was sure Dan was dying, that they were both going to die there. He thought he heard Death coming for Dan and there was nothing he could do except lie there. He told me he never wanted to feel that way again. He would have given anything.”

 

“He isn’t _human_ anymore,” Michael whispered.

 

“We love Gavin,” Griffon said. “We do. Unconditionally, Michael. But not blindly.”

 

“So?” Michael said. “So what? So you support this? You knew what he was planning, and you just— _let_ him?”

 

“We can protect him from all kinds of shit,” Geoff said, “but not from that memory. The fear he felt, the helplessness. That’s etched in there, Michael.  Etched in there deep as dicks.”

 

“He ran away from us, Michael,” Griffon said. “Things went wrong on a hunt in Istanbul. That telegram he sent, in Cairo, that was the first we’d heard from him in months.” She smiled. “We’re so grateful to you, Michael, for keeping him safe. We know you tried as hard as you could.”

 

“No,” Michael said. “You can’t let him do this.”

 

“No,” Griffon agreed. She shouldered her rifle. “Ready, husband?”

 

Geoff smiled at her, patted Michael kindly on the shoulder. “Ready.”

 

“Sit tight, hun,” Griffon said. “You brought him back to us, once. It’s our turn to bring him back to you.”

 

 

 

 

The rusted bulk of the 'plane was gleaming distantly in the light of ten thousand stars as Ray and Michael walked out of the temple.  The air was dead and cold.  Wrapped carefully in Michael's jacket and strapped to Ray's back, the spear cast strange shadows on the sand in front of their feet.

 

"Well, this took a weird and unexpected turn," Ray said.  "Unpleasant.  Am I right?"

 

“Michael! Michael, wait!”

 

Lindsay caught him by the arm.

 

"You can't go," she said.

 

"I mean," Ray said, "we can't.  Physically.  But we can sit this one out, I guess."

 

“I’m done, Lindsay,” Michael said, not breaking his stride. “This whole outfit is bughouse and I’m out.  Ray's with me.  Right, Ray?”

 

"Well," Ray said.  "I mean, I'm  _with_ you, physically, as in, I'm standing right here with you, but, uh—"

 

“You’re not going to just leave him there, are you?” Lindsay demanded.

 

“Why the fuck not?” Michael snapped.  “It’s what he fucking wants.”

 

Her eyes flashed.  “You’re a better man than that, Michael Jones.  He’s in danger.”

 

“Gavin can handle himself,” Michael said.  

 

“No,” Lindsay said.  “Gavin thinks he can handle himself.  And then he gets into trouble.”

 

Michael ducked her arms and kept walking.

 

“You’re pissed off, I get it,” Lindsay shouted, voice swooping into the starlit sky.  “I am too.  They lied to all of us, and Gavin lied to you. But he’s Gavin, and he’s all alone in the dark with that thing stalking him in Ryan’s body like some kind of Minotaur! You fought Ryan, Michael! You know Griffon and Geoff can’t do it alone!”

 

“He made his choice!” Michael shouted back.  “This is mine!”

 

“Well, if you’re not going back for him,” Lindsay said, quiet, steely, “then maybe you’ll come back for me.”

 

Michael stopped dead, heart dropping in his chest.

 

“Linds—”

 

The light shifted around him as Lindsay snatched the spear from Ray's back.  Ray didn't even try to stop her.

 

“Lindsay, no—”

 

He spun around in time to catch the last glimpse of her as she sprinted back down into the depths.

 

“Lindsay!” 


	15. the mad texan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey what’s up everybody, this is hallo-catfish from the internet. I finished the story!
> 
> I haven’t been in RT fandom since Monty’s death, so my knowledge of and references to canon videos events is basically frozen in time.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who came back to read the finished product. It was really fun being in fandom with you!

_Egypt.  Desert.  Doomed._

 

They were all fucking idiots, Michael thought, staring out at the horizon.  The desert was calm around him, the sky flooded with stars.  He tried to recognize a constellation, any constellation, but the dry air was stinging his eyes, blurring his vision.  He tried to slow his breathing.  All the while, the temple pulled at him, as real and tangible as a pair of arms around his waist, drawing him in.

 

“Yeah, so,” Ray said.  He rubbed at the back of his neck.  “We’re going back in, right?”

 

“Is that Scorpio?” Michael said.  “Is that even supposed to be here, this time of year?”

 

“Michael.  C’mon, man.”

 

He’d tried to hold on to his anger as long as he could, as though anger alone could keep him upright and save him from the fear and heartache.  The burning force of it was gone now, replaced by a sharp pain in his chest, a ringing hollowness.  He felt unbalanced and unsteady without the weight of the medallion, floating between sand and stars.

 

_But he’s Gavin, and he’s all alone in the dark._

 

The words spilled out.  “Ray, I can’t save him from the thing in his head.  What if—what if—”  He hated the sound of his voice, so raw and uncertain.  “Tell me what to do, Ray.”

 

“Well,” Ray said.  “I’m not gonna lie.  The situation’s pretty fucked.”

 

Michael huffed out a laugh.  “No fucking shit.”

 

Ray said, gently, “We could get back on that big, beautiful, shiny ’plane and fly out of here, straight over the horizon, see what’s left that hasn’t been eaten up by sand.  But you and I both know we won’t do that.”

 

“I thought I knew him,” Michael said.  “I thought—”

 

“Don’t think,” Ray said.  “There’s no more time to think.  C’mon, bro.  I thought you hated all this back and forth, all the dusty old books and the Greek and Demotic and Hieratic and whatever the fuck.  Well, it’s your lucky day, because that shit’s not important anymore.  So forget about it.  Forget it ever happened.  Stop thinking.  It’s time to _act_ now.  Time to do what we always do.”

 

“Fight evil by moonlight?” Michael said.

 

“ _Improvise_ , you sarcastic motherfucker,” Ray said.  “Make it up on the fly.  Fuck shit up, stay alive, and save the, uh, whatever the male equivalent of ‘damsel’ is.”

 

“After all this, after everything—somehow it’s just the two of us again. Team No Name,” Michael said, and didn’t add, _And no future._

 

But Ray’s optimism was relentless.  “Just like old times,” he said.  He smiled and held out his hand, and Michael gripped it.

 

“Thank you,” Michael said.

 

“Don’t mention it.”  Ray clapped Michael on the shoulder, then yanked him in for a hug.  “See you on the other side.”

  
  
  
  


“Oh, thank god,” Lindsay said, when she saw Ray and Michael coming towards her in the dark.  She’d clearly been waiting for them, pacing a groove in the sand. The spear was planted beside her, shining like a beacon, and Michael recoiled at the sight of it, swallowing down a helpless little noise, remembering how Gavin had looked, starfished, wide-eyed, with the spear pinning him to the sand.

 

He wrapped the sleeve of his jacket around it and yanked it from the ground.  Then he paused, unwrapped the jacket, and gingerly closed his hand around it.

 

The spear was still hot, but it didn’t hurt to touch anymore.  It had the same slow, radiating heat like the bonnet of a car on a sunny day in winter.  And it looked smaller.  In Ryan’s hands, it had been at least ten feet long and luminous, but it seemed to have shrunken down to less mythical proportions.  

 

Still wasn’t quite Michael-sized, though, so he tossed it at Ray.  

 

Ray hissed as he caught it, expecting it to burn.  The hiss turned into a huff of surprise, and Ray leaned the spear against his shoulder.

 

“Neato,” he said.

 

“Sorry I took so long,” Michael said to Lindsay.  “I’m a dumbass.”

 

Lindsay didn’t reply, only smiled and pressed a hard yellow disc into his hand. It was lumpy, roughly the size of the medallion, with the texture of sandpaper.  Michael frowned down at it.  He knew what it was, but it was so supremely out of place he was having a hard time understanding.

 

“Is this...hard tack?" he said.

 

“A Patillo house special,” Lindsay said.  “Gavin wasn’t bullshitting us about the ritual of the divine bread.  The ancient Egyptians performed it annually to thank Aser-hapi for guarding order and balance in their universe.  Of course, they used freshly baked loaves, but I think the important thing is that we have something made with grain.”

 

“Sounds fake, but okay,” Ray said.

 

“So I give Ray the magical spear,” Michael said slowly, “and I get a cement biscuit.  What am I supposed to do with this?  Throw it at Ryan and hope it hits him at just the right angle to knock him unconscious?”

 

Lindsay shifted uneasily from side to side.

 

Michael said, dully, “Oh.  You have no idea.”

 

“Look, apocalypse-adjacent demonic possessions aren’t really my thing,” Lindsay said.  “I’m much more about ideal tomb configuration, eternal hauntings, and the occasional spike trap.”

 

A wild, undulating scream whipped through the complex, dragging with it a wave of molten air that seemed to burn the skin on their faces.

 

“Delightful,” Ray said.

 

They sprinted for the hole.

  
  
  


The scream died by the time they reached the edge of the cave-in.  The rope ladder was gone.  They peered down into the hole—

 

—and were silent.  For a long time.

 

“I don’t understand what I’m looking at,” Michael said finally.

 

“I understand what I’m looking at,” Ray said, “but I feel like I shouldn’t be looking at it.”

 

“You’re looking at Jack Patillo _getting shit done_ ,” Jack shouted.  “Hold still, you wriggly demonic sonuvabitch.”

 

He’d _lassoed_ Ryan—and shoved a fucking rock in his mouth.  The remnants of a gag, a checkered handkerchief, were smoldering at the bottom of a massive blast crater.  There was a pervasive odor of burned hair.  Dying embers were floating in the air like motes of dust.

 

“Hey, Michael,” Jack called.  He had a knee in Ryan’s back and a forearm against Ryan’s neck, forcing his head into the wall.  Wisps of smoky light escaped from the indentation where Ryan’s mouth was pressed into against the crumbling reliefs, stretched around the piece of rubble.  He was audibly growling.  The shadow of his horns seemed to pulse and sharpen with every noise he made.  “Lindsay, Ray.  How’s it going?”

 

“We’re fan-fucking-tastic,” Michael said, dumbfounded.  “How. . .are you?”

 

“Oh, well,” Jack said.  “Not incinerated, so I guess I can’t complain.”

 

“ _How_?" Ray said.

 

“I’m from Texas,” Jack said.  His tone implied that it was obvious. It implied furthermore that Ray was a moron.  “I can handle a longhorn.  Surprised you didn’t think of it, Ray.”

 

“Jack, I’m from New York,” Ray said.  “You can’t expect these things from me.”

 

“And you, Tuggey,” Jack said.  “Thought you grew up on a ranch.”

 

“Yeah, silly me,” Lindsay said.

 

Michael was already climbing in, swinging his way down and across the protruding rock until there was nothing left and he was dangling by the tips of his fingers.  He let go and landed heavily in the rubble.  Ray threw the spear down and followed, landing on all fours like a cat.

 

“Fuckin’ show-off,” Michael said, grabbing his hand and hauling him upright.  He and Ray rushed forward just in time to catch Lindsay as she dropped from the rim, pack, guns, torch and all.

 

“Trust fall,” she said, opening her eyes, which had been screwed shut, and dusting herself off.  “Good job, boys, you win my trust.  All the trust.”  

 

“Here, take your damn biscuit back,” Michael said.  

 

“Keep it until I figure out whether we’re supposed to give it to him whole or crumble it on his face,” Lindsay said.

 

“Kinky,” Ray said.

 

“Hey, kids,” Jack said.  “I don’t want to break up the group huddle, but this guy ain’t exactly easy to hold on to.”

 

“I thought you said you were a cattle wrangler, Jack,” Lindsay said.  She dumped a book, her digging tools, a handful of amulets, and a fragment of papyrus reed onto the sand.  “Now _where_ did I put that athame—”

 

“Typically, in this scenario, I have a horse,” Jack said.  “I said _hold still_ , Demon Wearing My Friend’s Skin.”

 

Michael hurried over, forcing Ryan’s arms together behind his back while Ray bound his wrists with sailor’s knots.  Up close, he could see that Ryan’s hands were badly burned, the palms red and blistering.

 

“Aw, shit, Ryan,” he said.  “I’m sorry.”

 

Ryan growled and slavered at him.

 

Ray had stepped back, tilting his head as he examined his handiwork.  He tugged at the knots:  none budged.  

 

“Well, this has been weird and uncomfortable in so many ways,” he said.

 

The stone in Ryan’s mouth began to glow and crack.  Fragments of it fell to the ground, and the thing in his body worked his mouth and said, slowly, “Agents of Setesh!  I will destroy you—”

 

“Great,” Michael said.  “Glad to hear it.  Thanks.”

 

“Honestly, I can’t tell the difference,” Jack said.  “That’s something Ryan says all the time, even when he isn’t possessed by the devil.”

 

“—and any who seek to bring chaos to this world,” Not Ryan finished, evidently unaffected by their mockery.

 

“That’s, uh, that’s really not our game, Cow Guy,” Ray said.  “I like a good bit of chaos as much as the next guy, but this is a little too much chaos, even by my standards.”

 

“Hey, Jack,” Lindsay called.  “You got any water on you?”

 

“I got some bodily fluids,” Jack said.  He nodded at the canteen on his hip.  “Also got Scotch if you need it.”

 

Lindsay considered.  “Maybe later,” she said.

 

“All right, all right, enough already,” Michael said.  “Let’s get this over with.  Let’s appease him or whatever.  We have other shit to deal with.”

 

“Okay, okay,” Lindsay said.  “I’m just—not sure—”  

 

Ray handed her his waterskin.  “You got this, Lindsay.”

 

She cleared her throat and squared her shoulders.  “Servant of the sun god, Amun-Ra, guardian of the divine order, servant of Osiris, lord of the West, uh. . .”  She paused and started to count on her fucking fingers.  “Protector of humankind. . .horned one. . .he who lights the way. . .golden bull of the nether realm. . .”

 

“I think he gets the idea,” Michael said, in an undertone.  The thing in Ryan’s body was watching Lindsay intently through Ryan’s bloodshot eyes, mouth grinning and dripping what appeared to be molten saliva.  It was unnerving, to say the least.

 

“Tack me,” Lindsay said.

 

Michael pushed it into her hand.  She rattled off another string of epithets, pouring a long stripe of water on the ground between her feet and Ryan’s.  She finished, imperiously, brandishing the disc like a badge:  “The people sing your praises.  The people offer you bread.  Be appeased and—”

 

The gleaming mouth grinned wider.  There was a sun growing in Ryan’s throat.

 

“Shit!” Lindsay said, and shoved the entire disc of hard tack into Ryan’s distended mouth.

 

“What the fuck, Lindsay!” Michael said.

 

She stared at him with wide eyes.  “I panicked!”

 

Ray shouted, “Get down!”

 

But the light died.  Then Ryan gagged and made a muffled noise that sounded more confused than violent.  Slowly and ever so cautiously, expecting at any moment for Ryan to bite the shit out of his hand, Michael tiptoed closer and removed the hard tack.

 

“Ow,” Ryan said.  “My teeth.”

  
  
  


“So let me get this straight,” Ryan rasped, as Jack bandaged his hands.  “Gavin opened a portal to hell and lost his goddamn mind, and a weird...cow...thing took over my body, but you fed it some grain and it went away?”

 

“When you put it like that, it sounds ridiculous,” Ray said.  “But yes.”

 

Jack said, “You forgot the part where I lassoed you and rode you around the room like a bronco.”

 

“Dear god, Jack,” Ray said.  “ _Why_?”

 

Jack said, imperturbably, “Texas.”

 

“Did I, at any point in these ludicrous proceedings, deepthroat a cactus?” Ryan said.  “Everything tastes like blood.”

 

“No, don’t,” Lindsay cried, but Ryan had snagged the canteen from Jack’s belt and taken a swig.  He made a noise somewhere between a shriek and a whistle.  His face contorted into a silent scream.

 

“Oh my god,” he whispered finally.  “I should have known better.”

 

“It’s like you don’t even know me,” Jack said.  He clapped Ryan on the back.  “Good to have you back, Haywood.”

 

“Your first apocalypse-adjacent demonic possession,” Michael said to Lindsay.  “Went pretty okay, didn’t it?”

 

“Yeah, I’ll add it to my resume,” she said.  She was frowning, distracted.  “Don’t you think that was a little too easy?”

 

“Hey, I’ll take it,” Michael said.  “It’s only going to get harder from here on out.”

 

“That’s what—” Ray’s voice trailed off.

 

The temple shook around them, dropping dust and sand onto their heads and into their eyes.  They looked around, anxious, but the walls seemed to be holding.

 

“I hate this place and wish it would stop doing that,” Ray said.

 

“So what’s the plan?” Ryan said, in a voice like gravel.  He tried to draw his pistol with his bandaged hands and winced.  “We gonna knock Gavin’s teeth in with some hard tack, too?”

 

“Why the hell not,” Michael said, as a scorpion burst from the sand and skittered a shining black circle around his feet.  “Let’s go.”

  
  
  


They stepped into the secret passageway and began to advance in a modified phalanx, with Michael and Ray at the front and Lindsay in the center, pistol in one hand and electric light in the other.  Jack and Ryan brought up the rear.  Ryan had the rope coiled around one shoulder and a knife between his teeth.  Jack held both their guns.

 

It was strange that he hadn’t noticed the medallion’s absence immediately after Gavin had taken it, Michael thought.  He felt its loss now, so keenly it was like an open wound.  

 

The path sloped lower and lower, and the darkness grew heavier.  The spear cast a faint, rattling golden glow around them.  The air whispered and murmured.

 

The ground was black and shifting, _crawling_.  Scorpions ran over the toes of their boots.  

 

“What’s that sound?” Ryan said, hushed.  “Is that—water?”

 

But Ray shook his head and pointed.  Lindsay raised the electric light.

 

Sand was trickling down through the crevices in the walls, rushing and rustling, piling up along the sides of the corridor.  It was as though they were all trapped inside an hourglass.

 

“ _He’s here_ ,” Michael said.  

 

For a moment they stood frozen and panicked.  Then, far away in the darkness came a loud, warbling war cry that could only belong to Geoff.

 

The phalanx collapsed as they broke into an uncoordinated run.  The chamber where they’d opened the portal was dead ahead, but the shouting and shooting had erupted in the corridor, just around the bend.  As they neared the sharp left turn, blinding purple light arced across the sand, scattering jagged fragments of glass into the air.  Michael threw up a forearm to protect his eyes—

 

When he opened them, he was ready to face the sand tornado raging in his path, or the hundred thousand scorpions writhing in some kind of towering, humanoid shape.  

 

He was steeling himself to face the sight of the crumpled figures of Geoff and Griffon, half buried in sand—

 

He was _not_ expecting to find the corridor clogged by a legion of tall, stretched figures with glowing purple eyes, seemingly shaped from pure shadow.

 

“Oh my _fucking_ god, what is even happening right now,” Ray said.  “What are _these_ ?  Shadows?  Are we getting attacked by _shadows_?”

 

Geoff was whooping somewhere in the middle of the mass.  They heard the crack of a pistol and saw him swinging wildly with something that resembled a linen-wrapped leg-bone.

 

A shotgun blast opened the nearest shadow up from neck to groin.  The shadow wavered, then reformed.

 

They heard Griffon yelling in frustration.  “Fuck!”  

 

“You know what?” Ray said.  “I’ve decided not to question anything anymore.  Godspeed, ladies and gentlemen.”  

 

He drew a pistol and threw himself into the fray.  Michael and the others followed, striking out blindly at the hissing forms around them.  Long fingers raked at them like talons, clawing at their clothing and hair.

 

One of them caught Michael and held him fast and _squeezed_.  It was like sinking into the coldest depths of the ocean.  Pressure built in his head until his eyes felt like they were going to explode out of his skull.  

 

Geoff reared up in front of him, swinging at the shadow like he was aiming for a home run and narrowly missing Michael’s face.  The shadow vanished, and Michael stumbled forward, gasping.

 

“Oh, hey, what’s up, everybody?” Geoff warbled, waving the bone around.  

 

Lindsay shouted and pointed.  “Geoff, is that a femur?  Did you find a mummy?  Oh my god, Geoff, where’s the mummy?”

 

“Lindsay!  Now is definitely not the time,” Ray said.

 

“But—”

 

“No time!” Ray bellowed.  He chopped a shadow in the throat and made a noise of dismay as his hand passed through without harming it.

 

Geoff clapped Michael on the shoulder.  “Glad to see you, man.  Have a bone, I’ve got plenty.”

 

“I’ll pass,” Michael said.  “Gavin—where’s Gavin?”

 

“We saw him, Michael,” Griffon called, over the mess of shadowy heads.  “Just for a moment.  He was carrying a box.”

 

“The portal!” Lindsay said, sharing a look of panic with Michael.  “These must be creatures of the nether realm.  But that means—Michael!  Duat is tearing free of its confines!  The line between worlds must be breaking down!”

 

“I’m going to _kill_ Gavin,” Michael shouted.  “Fuck!  Fuck you, get out of my way!”  The shadows were freezing cold as he tore at them.  “Get your fuckin’ hands off me!”

 

Their numbers were overwhelming.  It was like trying to fight against a riptide.  They seized him, lifted him off his feet, and pummeled him against the walls of the corridor, knocking the breath from his lungs.

 

Michael heard Geoff cursing as the shadows brought him to his knees, heard Lindsay crying out.

 

One by one, the Hunters were subdued.  

 

The ground shook again.

 

With a low, hollow moan, the sand at their feet began to swirl, to coalesce into the shape of a man.  Their ears filled with the sound of rising laughter.  The shadows laughed too, in a demented chorus.

  
  
  
  


**Mer-en-Sutekh** , the sandman said, in a hundred voices, some whispering, some chanting, some wailing.  

 

Black spots swam before Michael’s eyes.  There was blood in his mouth.  He spat it at the feet of the creature.

 

The cloak of whirring, humming sand fell away, and there before them stood a compact figure of a man, lithe and dark under starched white linens.  It was human in every aspect, save for the burning pits of its kohl-lined eyes and its wide and jagged smile.

 

The creature caressed the face of one of the shadowy figures, which turned toward it like a flower seeking the sun.  “Beloved of the god.  So you remember your old master, do you?

 

“Your loyalty would touch my heart,” it said, “if only I could find it.

 

“And you,” the creature continued, turning to Michael.  “Dog of Anapa, you’ve come again, dragging your belly through the sand.”

 

“Fuck you,” Michael snarled.  

 

The insult didn’t seem to register.  Instead, the creature’s smile seemed to widen until it filled Michael’s vision.  The outlines of the man wavered, bulging wildly outwards, stretching again into a long, thin shadow that towered above the rest.

 

**Where is he?**

 

Michael glared into the burning eyes.

 

The shape of the man reformed.  This time, the skin was stretched taut over the skull, the eyes big as coals, the arms and legs long and gangly.  A creature of nightmare.  It reached out with a long, spidery hand and grabbed Michael by the hair, yanking his head back so hard he thought his neck would snap.

 

“Where is he?” it hissed.  It loomed over Michael, nostrils flaring, eyes narrowing to fiery slits.  Its breath was dry and dead, the night wind over the desert.

 

Michael grunted.  “You’re gonna have to—be more— _specific_ —”

 

“Ammit take you, _where is the boy_?”

 

Something resembling a firework burst against the side of the thing’s face, distorting and melting it like wax.  The musculature and bone underneath were buffed white by centuries of shifting sand dunes.  The creature reeled back from Michael with a shriek, grabbing at the socket of its eye.  Embers and what looked like flecks of skin and blood danced in the air.

 

Feeling as though his ribs were cracking open, as though his heart and lungs were spilling onto the sand, Michael turned his head and saw Gavin.  

 

He stood like a statue in the distance.  His upturned palms glimmered with gold and fire.

 

“Oi, you stringy undead git!” he shouted.  “I’m right here!  Come and get me!”

 

“Gavin, no!” Michael yelled.  “Gavin!”

 

Gavin didn’t seem to hear.  He turned on his heel and fled back into the darkness.  With a shriek of pure hatred, the creature dematerialized into howling sandstorm and hurtled after him.

 

“Fuck you, get off me,” Michael yelled, writhing and kicking.  “Get off me!  I’ll fucking kill you!  Gavin!   _Gavin_!”  

 

The shadows held him fast, grinding his face into the sand and scorpions.  As he lay there choking, squinting through watering eyes, Michael saw a strange shadow curving across the wriggling bodies of the scorpions.  He recognized it, recognized the shape.  It was a pair of horns.  Between them burned the fire of the noonday sun.

 

Michael’s heart gave a single hard thud.  He rolled his eyes frantically upward and saw Ryan watching him, his blood-streaked face devoid of any expression.

 

“ _What_?” Michael whispered.

 

Ever so slowly, almost imperceptibly, Ryan winked.

  
And opened his mouth.


	16. the weighing of hearts

_Egypt.  The beginning of the end._  

 

Ryan’s left eyelid drooped into a wink.  

 

“No fucking way,” Michael breathed.  Ryan’s mouth stretched into a grin, stretched impossibly wide—and unleashed a flood of molten light.

 

Even before the shadows disintegrated, Michael began to move.  He dragged himself forward on his stomach, hauling the shadows with him.  He could feel the heat of the blast on the back of his neck.  He rose to his hands and knees as their bodies were eaten up by the light and their grasping fingers crumbled away into oblivion.  The spear was lying discarded beside Ray, who was just beginning to sway to his feet.

 

Michael hip-checked him out of the way of the beam and snatched the spear off the ground.  The light arced overhead, slicing into the ceiling and bringing down chunks of rock.

 

He stumbled and fell and picked himself up, cursing, as pieces of rubble smashed around him.  The wind was hot at his back, urging him onward.

 

“Gavin—”

 

 

 

 

The wind was no longer guiding Michael; it was rushing past, pulling him irresistibly toward a howling purple vortex.  He was in a low, sprawling underground chamber, impossibly large and wide despite the weight of tons of sand pressing down overhead.  The edges of the room seemed to curl back into infinity and darkness.  The vortex was spitting sparks of purple and black light into the air.

 

Gavin was scrabbling backwards in the sand, crab-walking, as the sandman advanced slowly toward him.  

 

The dull, rib-shaking roar of the wind seemed to deaden all other sound, and the flickering, flashing light of the vortex created an animatronic horror show.  Gavin retreated and the sandman advanced, jerkily, as though they were partners in a silent comedy.  Flames bloomed and withered in the air above them.

 

With every step, more and more sand fell away, hurtling into the vortex, until once again the slim dark shape of the man knelt before Gavin, on bended knee.

 

Michael stood paralyzed.  He felt miles away and made of stone, a lighthouse shining a useless beam at a ship sinking into stormy black seas.

 

Gavin closed his eyes.

 

The creature’s hand reached out, reached _in_ —

 

He didn’t have time to aim carefully.  He just threw the spear and _prayed_.  It hurtled toward the sandman in a glittering arc—

 

And flickered out of existence.

 

Before Michael could even muster a curse, the fucking wall exploded, coating everything in dust and powder and blowing Michael off his feet.  

 

“Again the gods send beasts to do their bidding,” the sandman hissed.

 

Ryan stepped through the rubble.  He was giggling hysterically and bleeding from the mouth.  The spear was like a sunbeam in his hand.  It lit the far corners of the room, and Michael saw that the walls were piled with treasures and bones.

 

“I don’t like you,” Ryan said, sing-song, sounding like he was gargling a mouthful of blood, “and my friend doesn’t like you, and we’re going to put you back in the hole.”

 

“Ryan!” Michael shouted, scrambling back to his feet.  “I could use a little help over h _hh_ —”

 

His voice died in his throat.

 

“Fuck—”

 

Michael had just enough time to gulp down a quick breath and squeeze his eyes shut before the wind erupted.  Sand lashed against his face, scoring his skin—and stopped, just as abruptly as it had begun.  Gingerly, Michael squinted one eye open.

 

Sand filled the air like the mist after heavy rain, obliterating Ryan and the creature from sight.  Lights flashed within the haze, blinding white and violet.

 

Gavin was standing in front of him, looking down at Michael.  His hands were outstretched, fingers splayed, holding back the storm.  He’d made a bubble, a pocket, somehow, in between the wind and sand, and the shadows and scorpions and Ryan’s goddamned heat-lasers.  In between life and death.

 

“Gavin,” Michael said.

 

“You came back,” Gavin said.  His eyes looked through Michael, dazed, glassy, gazing into the unknown future.  His fingers flexed and twitched.  The portal hummed like a living thing behind him.  “You shouldn’t have.”

 

“I can’t let you do this.”

 

“You’re far too late,” Gavin said.  “The die is cast, as they say.”

 

“That’s bullshit,” Michael said.  “Gavin, listen to me.  I know you’ve been scared—”

 

“You know sod all, Michael!” Gavin burst out.  “Don’t try to stop me.”

 

“Or what?” Michael said.  “What are you going to do about it, Gavin?”

 

Gavin’s mouth trembled.  “I don’t want to _hurt_ you, Michael,” he said.  “I’ve already—I’ve already hurt you enough, and I—”

 

Michael shoved him.

 

“I said, _what the fuck are you going to do about it, Gavin_?”

 

Gavin staggered backwards with a gasp.  He was shivering violently from head to toe, but when he found his voice, it was strong and steady.  

 

“ _Bind him_ ,” he said.  

 

As Michael watched, confused, disbelieving, long, thin shadows oozed forth from the vortex and surrounded him in a half moon.  In a single coordinated movement, the shadows seized his arms and forced him down.

 

It felt as though a chasm had opened up under Michael’s feet.  He was falling—

 

“Gavin, what is this?  What the fuck are you—”

 

“Sorry,” Gavin said.  “Things are critical now, Michael, and I can’t have you interferin’.”

 

“Stop this,” Michael said.  “Gavin, please!”

 

“What are you sayin’, Michael?” Gavin said.  “I’d be useful to you, after.  You’d never be in any danger again.  I’d keep you safe.  I’d keep you _all_ safe with—with just a _thought_ —with just the barest little flick of my finger.  With me at your side, Michael, nothing and no one could touch you.  Imagine it, Michael!  Imagine the _possibilities_!”

 

“And then what?” Michael shouted, struggling against the hands that held him.  “After he takes your heart, and you lose the last fucking piece of what’s human in you?  Are you going to rule over us?  Are you going to build sandcastles around our fucking bones?”

 

“Michael,” Gavin said, sounding hurt.  “I would never!”

 

“What about Ryan?” Michael demanded.  “We couldn’t get him back, Gavin.  He’s half insane, he’s burning from the inside out.  You already have blood on your hands!”

 

Gavin flinched.  

 

“You can’t just do this and think there won’t be consequences,” Michael said.  “Fuck, Gavin, you’re taking power from something _evil_!”

 

“I’ll make it good, Michael!” Gavin said.  “I’ll—I’ll _recycle_ it—I’ll transform it, I’ll honor the memories of the people who were sacrificed—”

 

“You can honor them by letting them rest in peace,” Michael said.  “Gavin—I’m begging you—don’t do it, please don’t.  Stay with us, stay _human_ with us.  Come back to me.”

 

But Gavin shook his head.

 

“No, Michael,” he said.  “It’s too late.”

 

“You fucking idiot!”

 

“I can’t hold the sand much longer,” Gavin said.  “He’ll be on me as soon as I let go.  Take the others up, get them outside, get ready to fly away if you have to.  And then—after I’ve— _changed_ —I’ll shut the gate—”

 

His eyes shone with an unearthly violet light.

 

Michael screamed at him, wordless and desperate.

 

Gavin swayed, and the sand dropped like a curtain.  Michael saw everything, all at once, bathed in the awful vibrating light of the vortex.  The Hunters had arrived, had followed Ryan through the rubble.  They were fighting hard to reach him through the black wall of shadows.  

 

Michael saw—

 

Griffon’s eyes widening and her rifle falling in slow motion from her hands, Geoff turning, beginning to lunge towards them, Ray yelling as he sank beneath a pile of shadows, Jack drawing back a haymaker.

 

He saw—

 

Lindsay, shouting across the chamber, shouting at Michael, completely unintelligible, Ryan lying in a heap at her feet, the spear useless and extinguished beside him—

 

_And the sandman, eyes alight, towering over Gavin, pushing his hand through Gavin’s chest from behind._

 

Michael could hear someone screaming.  It didn’t sound human.  Air tore at his throat.

 

The shadows let go of Michael and threw back their heads, or what was left of them, and roared and chattered in something resembling triumph.  

 

The sandman dissolved, and Gavin stood before them, alone and untouched.  He looked down at his hands, flexed them.  He raised one finger and the sand rose with it.  He opened a fist and a fire blossomed in his palm.

 

“Disperse!” he said, and the shadows vanished.  “See, Michael?” he said, as delighted as a child, and he threw back his head and laughed and _laughed_ —

 

And froze.  He turned to Michael, his eyes wide.

 

“ _Run_ ,” he said.  The sand was thrashing around his feet.  Shadows enveloped him, turning his skin and clothing the color of ash.  A dull gray mask seemed to settle over his face.  He screamed, doubling over.

 

Michael reached for him, horrorstruck.  “Gavin—”

 

“Get out of here!” Gavin yelled.  “Hurry!  I can’t—I can’t—oh, _god_!  Michael—”

 

Through the roar in his ears, Michael heard Griffon’s cry of anguish.

 

Gavin was _gone_ , consumed.  The column of sand warped and twisted, collapsing in on itself, becoming heavier and darker and denser until it looked at Michael with a human face, with Gavin’s face.

 

Gavin’s mouth split into a grin.

 

“ _Does it please you?_ ” the sandman said, with Gavin’s voice.  “ _This form?_ ”

 

Michael tackled him.  They tumbled into the vortex.

 

 

 

 

_Duat._

 

The sky on the other side of the portal was a pulpy green and purple, the color of a coming storm.  The air was humid and heavy on Michael’s skin.  He was standing on the shore of a black river.  The only thing moving and breathing across the whole doomed landscape was Michael, and yet there were eyes watching him from the reeds, slitted and reptilian and unblinking.

 

The sandman was watching him too, standing beside him on the bank.  Its eyes crinkled up just like Gavin’s would when something amused him.

 

“Dog of Anapa,” it said.  It was still using Gavin’s voice.  “What can you hope to accomplish?  Did you think the river would drag me screaming to the land of the dead?  Your power is in my hands.  The emblem of the jackal serves _me_.  What lies beyond the Western gate bows to _me_ now.”

 

“I’ll stop you,” Michael said.

 

“Michael,” it said, cajoling, tender, sweeter than Gavin had ever sounded.  “ _Michael_ , you could never hurt me.”

 

Michael breathed in.

 

The sandman leapt at him, lifted him up and smashed him down into the mud.

 

Michael _heard_ the rattle and squish.  He heard his bones popping.

 

“My vessel is precious to you,” it said to him, gloating and triumphant, gouging Gavin’s fingernails into Michael’s throat and cheek as he lay gasping and twisted on the ground.  “You don’t have the heart to harm it.  Look, look at what’s become of you, emissary of the noble jackal, across the millennia you’ve grown weak and soft—”

 

“Gavin,” Michael managed.  Blood dribbled down his chin; he’d bitten his tongue.  He moaned as the sandman lifted him, pulling him up by his hair, and started dragging him step by step towards the water’s edge.

 

“Fool!  You fool,” the thing said, giggling as it pushed his face into the water.  “Your master has deserted you.  I will feed you to the crocodiles piece by piece.  I will sink your bones to the bottom of this accursed river.  I will, I’ll, _I’ll_ —no, _no_ , damn you, damn your heart—”

 

His mouth filled with the taste of mud and metal.  The edges of the world blurred and darkened.  

 

 

 

 

He fell for a thousand years.  Or at least that was how it felt.

 

All the way down, Michael hallucinated.  He was flashing through his life, through the last light fading from Gavin’s eyes, through every single touch of Gavin’s hands on his skin, the laughter, the drunken singing, the last kiss and the first.  He fell through the cold water of the Nile on the night their boat sank, past the rustling river reeds, past the whirling sand of the cursed city.  His first year on the run with Ray—the first white flash of Mama Narvaez’s smile as she welcomed him into the family with open arms.  He was hurtling through the mild blue waters of the Kittatinny again, then through the thick, boot-sucking mud of the river bottom, startling fish and disturbing the current-smoothed pebbles.  He fell through the starless velvet darkness that was the pelt of the jackal man, over which an impossibly round and golden harvest moon rose and _gleamed_ , and then—

 

And then he was standing, feet firmly planted, the wind rising in his ears, somewhere in ancient Egypt.  A city rose before his eyes, filled with people and animals, their outlines wavering like a mirage in the desert.

 

He wasn’t alone.

 

“Dakhla,” the jackal man said.  When he spoke, his voice issued from behind the jackal’s head, as though he were wearing a mask.  Michael heard nothing with his ears; he felt the jackal’s words vibrating inside his _chest_ , speaking in every language, and also in song.

 

“A desert oasis, a jewel in the two crowns of the Chosen of Re, whom your people call Ramses, or the Great.”

 

The temple unfolded before them.  It was a riot of color, every surface painted, every pillar and beam capped with glimmering limestone.  Inside, altars were burning, sending up plumes of oily black smoke.  Blood streamed in bright red tracks across the beaten earth floor.

 

“The governor of Dakhla had three wives and seven children,” the jackal man said.  “Note the use of the past tense.  The wives succumbed to the same illness.  The children survived—for a time.”

 

Michael could hear shouting, the ringing of swords and spears.  

 

“When the assassins failed, Re’s Chosen sent soldiers,” the jackal man said.  “The soldiers were successful—to a point.”

 

A priest staggered forward, clutching at the spear in his belly, and died at Michael’s feet.  His flesh split open, and a shadow peeled itself out into daylight, looking just like a soft, slimy grub forcing its way out from an egg.  It tilted its head and stretched an arm into the depths of the temple, deeper and deeper, until it seized the soldier to whom the spear belonged.

 

Screams filled Michael’s ears.  Blood poured down the steps in rivulets.

 

“Magicians came next, to do the king’s bidding,” the jackal man said.  “But they were only human.  They could not hope to challenge the power of a god.”

 

The sun streaked overhead, traveling from one end of the sky to the other.  Day and night cycled.

 

“So Re’s Chosen, for he was truly chosen, prayed to his gods,” the jackal man said.  “And I answered.”

 

Michael thought, dimly, that Lindsay was going to lose her shit when he told her about this.  The dog of Anapa had been a bitch.

 

Her face blurred before his eyes; but he could see the shape of her body under her leopard’s skin.  She was small and sturdy, striding up the steps of the temple with the medallion held firmly before her.  The pooling blood might as well have been rainwater.  The troops that followed wore helmets with curving horns; they rattled golden spears against their bucklers.

 

A sandstorm rose, blotted out the sun, destroyed the temple.  Anubis’ representative, battered and bloodied, stood her ground as her soldiers fell behind her and the old priest howled in her face.  His own face was stretched and distorted, bloodless, inhuman.

 

She raised the medallion and pierced him with a bolt of iridescent black and blue magic.  It tore a hole through his body that could not be repaired, and he fell without a sound.  

 

Her hand was clenched tight around the medallion.  She stared down at it, considered it.  A mad light shone in her eyes.  And then she sighed, gentle, and opened her fist.

 

“Death bends around those who wield the medallion,” the jackal man said.  “Did you not realize?”

 

The soldiers in their horned helmets gathered what was left of her in their arms, carried her down the steps.  The medallion lay forgotten in the sand.  No one saw it, no one stooped to retrieve it.  They were singing a mourning song.

 

The jackal man hummed along, staring at Michael with that single beady fucking lapis lazuli eye.  

 

“Did you not realize?” he said again, exactly as he had before.

 

“Gavin,” Michael said.  He tried to turn, to climb back somehow, but he was rooted to the ground—even as it spasmed beneath him and the color of the sand changed, and the buildings turned black and sparkled in the sun like obsidian.  The statue of the jackal man was raised before Michael’s eyes.  Scaffolding surrounded it, thin and flimsy as a toothpick castle; people swarmed it like ants.  Seconds or years later, he watched as the people of the city painted the statue a black that seemed to eat the light around it.  He watched as they bowed before it and laid offerings at its feet.

 

“Uten Sakhal,” the jackal man said next.  “My city.  The creature’s heart was a heavy burden, but my people were proud to bear it.  It should have been safe here.”

 

“Enough!” Michael shouted.  “I know how this goes.  I know how it ends.  Enough!”

 

“But Setesh, that trickster brother of mine, is a god of more than red sand or crocodiles or scorpions,” the jackal man said.  There was a glint in his eye.  “And so he led you, the foreign ones, people of chaos, to the seat of my city, to my statue, where the heart of his follower should have been trampled eternally beneath my heel.”

 

“Let me go!”

 

Anubis said, “I would never have chosen you.  You are nothing like what she was.”

 

“Tough fucking luck,” Michael snarled.  “I didn’t ask for this either, I didn’t choose you either—”

 

“I spoke to you in dreams,” the jackal man said, “but you did not listen.  I called to you in your waking hours, but you turned from me.

 

“Now, at last, you’ve brought him into my realm,” he said.  “Now, at last, I’ve shown you how she dealt with him.  I’ve shown you her resolve.  Little man, I will give you the strength of a hundred soldiers.  I will make you my deathless representative.  Raise the medallion against him, and I will do the rest.”

 

The jackal man was growing, towering over him, stretching to fill his vision.  His stern voice grew with him until it was booming, bell-like, resonating in Michael’s ribs.

 

“She gave her life, but you will keep yours, for I do not wish to lay claim to it.  Leave the black lands.  Go back to your foreign gods.  Trouble us no longer. . .”

 

 

 

 

Michael opened his swollen eyes with a gasp.

 

The thing was kneeling beside him in the shallows, leaning over him, trembling.  Tears and sweat tracked shining paths through the sand on its hollowed out cheeks.

 

“Gavin,” Michael rasped.

 

“Oh, Christ, look at you,” Gavin said.  “Oh, Michael, look what I’ve bloody done to you.”

 

Michael reached up. The only thing he wanted in the world at that moment was to wipe the tears off Gavin’s face, but instead his fingers left smears of blood and dirt on Gavin’s skin—Gavin’s whole and living skin.

 

“Gav.”  It hurt to smile, and Michael was pretty sure he was missing some teeth, but he did it anyway.  “Looks like I’m precious—to you too.”  

 

“Why’re you doin’ this t’ me, Michael?” Gavin said, shuddering as Michael touched him.  “Oh, Michael.  Why’d you come after me?”

 

“I love you, you dumbfuck,” Michael said.  “I’m _stupid_ in love with you.”

 

Gavin’s breath hitched.

 

“Michael, take it,” he said, pulling open his shirt, reaching back with shaking hands to undo the knotted leather cord.  The medallion hung between them, spinning, spinning, its glow dead and dulled.  “Quick, Michael, the medallion—quick, take it—hurry, Michael, end this—help me—”

 

Michael’s fingers closed around the golden rim.

 

The jackal man’s strength flowed into him, rocketing up through the soles of his feet, gluing together his fractures, knitting him back together and soothing all his hurts, clearing the darkness from his vision.  The jackal man’s one hundred soldiers whispered and shouted in his ears, rising and falling until their voices coalesced into a single hoarse command:   _The medallion!_

 

Michael lifted it up.  He felt swollen and deranged with power.  His heart beat inside him like a war drum.  

 

He sat up.  Gavin sat back.  He met Michael’s eyes and tried to smile; his mouth drooped instead.

 

“Hurry,” he said.  His voice shook.

 

Michael stood.  He stretched his hand up, up into the bruised and boiling sky, until the light of the medallion cast living, writhing, hieroglyphic shadows across Gavin’s face.

 

The medallion flared in his hand.  Michael drew back his arm—

 

Gavin’s eyes were wide open:  he was looking up at Michael, staring at Michael like he was trying to memorize every last detail, burn the sight of him into his brain.  

 

 _Now,_ said the jackal man.   _Now!  Do it now!_

 

—and hurled the medallion into the river.

 

 

 

 

It hit the black water without a sound.  Michael watched it sink, watched the surface settle over it again, thick as tar.  

 

A sigh went through the reeds; the crocodile eyes blinked, once, and Michael lowered his arm.

 

The world beyond the gate was quiet.  Something about the silence seemed stunned.

 

“Michael!” Gavin sputtered.  “You—you utter prancin’ _pillock_!  You—that—that was a god’s emblem, Michael Jones, it was _blessed_ and _potent_ and you threw it into the river like—”

 

“Like a wet paper towel,” Michael said, nodding along.  “I don’t need it.  It doesn’t matter anymore.”

 

Gavin’s eyes were bugging out of his head.  It was like he couldn’t draw enough breath to speak.  He just sat there in the mud, choking, gaping at Michael, mouthing like a fucking fish.  “What are you saying?” he exclaimed.  “You’re mad!  What will you do?  How can you kill me now?”

 

“I’m not going to kill you,” Michael said.  “What would I say to Griffon, or Geoff?”

 

“Michael, I’m—I’m a bloody _monster_!  I beat you half to death!”

 

Michael held out his hand.  “We’ll go together,” he said.  “I’m not leaving without you, Gavin.  Together, or not at all.  Your choice.”

 

Gavin’s jaw dropped.  “You’re impossible!” he said.

 

“That’s my line,” Michael said.  “Well?  Are you coming or not?”

 

Slowly, Gavin took his hand.  “All right,” he said softly.  “All right.”  

 

“Atta boy.”  Michael pulled him to his feet.  

 

The river _boiled_.

 

 

 

 

The _sky_ thundered at them:   _I SEE NOW THAT I MUST TAKE MATTERS INTO MY OWN HANDS._

 

“Run!” Michael shouted.  “Run, Gavin!”

 

The waters were rising.  A golden light spread across the surface—the reflection of a full moon, but there was no moon in the sky.  Water spouts spiraled up; black tendrils shot into the air.

 

“What—”

 

Gavin threw up an arm as they stumbled over the bank.  Sand flashed against the river, turned to mud, dropped from the sky.

 

Reality thinned and stretched.  The portal was being pulled farther and farther away.

 

“Oh, shit!” Michael said.  “Oh, fuuu _uuu_ —”

 

His voice leapt into an undignified shriek as Gavin snatched him up into his arms and spun into sand around him.  They blasted forward, raking across the dunes.

 

Still the river rose, higher and higher, bursting its banks, rearing up into the sky like a living thing.  The whole world was black water, a tidal wave, shot through with the piercing blue of the jackal man’s eye, the gleaming white flash of his teeth.  

 

_SETESH!_

 

Lightning flashed; the sky seemed to crack apart with thunder.  The storm, the sandman, _Gavin_ —whatever and whoever—wavered and disintegrated, and Michael dropped like a stone.

 

He hit the ground, blinded by sand, tumbling and rolling until he slammed into something hard and came to a jarring stop.  Michael could feel the crackle of the vortex on his skin, the flaring particles, even before he picked himself up and rubbed the sand out of his eyes.  He’d hit the obsidian gate.  The heavy air threw sparks and spun open.  The vortex roared above him.

 

He looked around wildly, scanning the dunes for Gavin.  Finally he saw him, some fifty feet away, stunned by the fall.  

 

“Come on!” Michael screamed at him.  “Gavin!”

 

The river was sweeping towards them, slowly, inexorably.  It was reaching for them with a thousand hands.  Gavin was still trying to pick himself up, scrabbling on his knees.

 

“Gavin, you fucking fuck,” Michael yelled.  “Run!”  He couldn’t let go of the portal, for fear that it would shoot off into the distance again.  He dug his feet into the ground and watched, helpless, feeling like he was going to choke on his heart.  

 

Gavin clawed to his feet and began staggering through the sand.  Thirty feet—twenty—

 

Michael was chanting under his breath now.  “Come on, come on, come on come on _come on_ —”

 

Five—

 

Gavin skidded to a stop in front of him.

 

“What are you doing?” Michael said.  “Come on!  Give me your hand!”

 

Gavin shoved him.

 

As Michael staggered, stumbling into the vortex, he heard Gavin shouting.  “Do your worst, Anubis, you anus of a deity—”

 

 

 

 

It was just like Gavin, Michael thought, to pull a stunt like this.

 

The black water was whipping into foam around Gavin’s legs, spinning into a whirlpool.  Half in and half out of the portal, feeling his feet sliding through the sand and grit on the other side of the gate, Michael held on to Gavin’s forearm, gripping so tight he was sure his fingernails were drawing blood.

 

“God damn it, Gavin!” he shouted.

 

“Let go!” Gavin said, through gritted teeth.  The black water lashed against his back and spiraled up his body.  “It’s too dangerous, he’ll drown you too—Michael, please!”

 

“What part of _together_ didn’t you understand, you piece of shit!”

 

Arms wrapped around Michael’s waist; hands seized his ankles.  He was being pulled backward, out through the portal, back into the desert.  Dimly, across the miles and centuries, he heard the Hunters yelling his name, Gavin’s name.  He heard Ray giving the count.  

 

_One, two—pull!_

 

_One, two—_

 

“Sorry, Michael,” Gavin said, over the rush and gurgle.  “Sorry.  I can’t come back.  Not like this.  I’d only hurt you, and I’d rather—”

 

He turned his own arm to sand and slipped through Michael’s grasping hands.

 

“Gavin!”

 

The water closed over Gavin’s screaming face and changed color.  For a moment it flowed smoothly, and Michael saw his own stricken reflection in its mirrored golden glass.  Then the surface wavered, simmered— _bulged_ —

 

The water parted and burst, and a cloud of buzzing sand exploded into view, spiraling upwards, shrieking, fleeing into the sky.  The storm wailed:

 

 **You think this will stop me?  You destroy a mere vessel!** **_This is only the beginning!_ **

 

 _THIS IS THE END_ , Anubis replied.

 

A wave crashed down, and the sandstorm disappeared from view.

 

Michael would never know what happened next.  With a noise like a cork popping, he was pulled through the vortex.

 

 

 

 

He flew backwards, skidding across the dry desert sand with such force that he knocked Jack and Ray over.

 

“Oof!”

 

Ray didn’t even try to get up.  He just grabbed Michael tighter and squeezed him until his ribs creaked.

 

“Thank god,” he said, muffled.  Then he felt the blood on Michael’s hands, saw the blood on his shirt.  He drew back, appalled.  “Michael—”

 

Black water blasted from the portal, drenching them in darkness.  Lindsay shouted in tongues, heavy and guttural, and the water receded almost as suddenly as it had come.  Ryan—or the bull—stabbed into the center of the vortex with his spear.

 

The spear burst into shards.  With a dull, bone-shaking roar, the vortex collapsed on itself, spiralling smaller and smaller until it finally winked out of existence.  Lindsay slammed the lid of the chest shut.

 

Michael scrambled to his feet, fighting off Ray’s hands.  

 

“Gavin!”

 

“ _Oh_ ,” Geoff said, and it sounded like someone had stabbed him.  “Oh, dicks.   _Gav_.”

 

The wave had brought detritus from Duat into this world:  a wriggling black lizard, a broken reed, a wooden doll, a lapis bead, a golden medallion.

 

And Gavin.

 

He was lying in a heap beside the chest.  His hair and body were dry, as though the water had never touched him.  The sand was flat and lifeless under his body, and his eyes were closed.  

 

Griffon reached him first, sweeping him into her arms.

 

“Gavin,” she said, brushing the hair from his face.  “Gavin, sweetheart.”

 

“You tried, Jones,” Geoff said, ragged, as Michael stepped towards them.  “God, you tried, and we’ll always be grateful.”

 

Griffon was silent.  Michael could hear her breathing, slow and shaky.

 

“Oh, Michael,” Lindsay said.  Her eyes were brimming with tears.

 

He clasped the hand she put on his shoulder, briefly, tenderly.  Then he knelt down beside Griffon.

 

She was resting Gavin’s head on her lap, still stroking his forehead.  His mouth was slightly open, his cheeks sunken.  There was foam on his lower lip.  He looked very pristine and very dead.

 

Michael laid the medallion down on Gavin’s chest.  He curled Gavin’s hands around it.

 

“Here, Gav,” he said, soft.  “Here.”

 

 

 

 

Faintly, even as his fingers tightened around the golden edges, Gavin whispered, “I don’t want it.”


	17. epilogue:  so long, howard carter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is it! thanks for reading.

_Ashmolean Museum, Oxfordshire, England.  May 21, 1927._

 

“—who knows what other secrets lie beneath the sand?  Thank you.”

 

There was a smattering of tepid applause.  Michael wasn’t having it; he jumped to his feet and whooped.  The people around him gasped.  A man in the row in front of him pivoted around with a pinched and owlish look on his face, and shushed him almost violently.

 

Rows below, at the center of the lecture room—resplendent in academic tweeds and a little black dickey bow, standing before a blackboard covered in looping glyphs and a table practically bowing under the weight of a dozen precious artifacts—Lindsay shook her head at him and grinned.

 

“I’ll take questions now,” she said.

 

 

 

 

Michael waited in the shade of the oak and hawthorn trees at the corner of Beaumont and Magdalen.  

 

Lindsay arrived as the bells struck two, flushed and breathless, hat crushed under her arm, her hair spilling loose from the knot at the back of her head.

 

“Michael!”

 

“Excellent presentation, Doctor Tuggey,” Michael said, tipping his hat in her direction.

 

“Oh, stop it, you,” she said, and beamed.  “You didn’t stay until the end.”

 

“I tried, sweet,” Michael said, “but it was Greek to me.  Or Egyptian, I suppose.”

 

“Late Egyptian,” Lindsay corrected.  “With a smattering of Demotic.  There’s a shift in pronunciations, a dropping of softer consonants—”

 

Laughing, Michael took her satchel from her.  “So,” he said.  “How’d it go with the great Mister Carter?  Am I gonna have to bust some heads?”

 

“Mm,” Lindsay said.  She brought her knuckles to her mouth and chewed thoughtfully on them.  “He was very polite,” she said finally.  “They all were.  They still don’t know what to make of me.”

 

“Good,” Michael said.  He offered her his arm, and she took it with a smile.

 

 

 

 

Oxford in May was greener and more lush than Michael could have hoped or imagined.  The sunlight streamed through the trees, dappling the lane.  Arm in arm, he and Lindsay strolled past the gated courtyards and arched, square-paned windows and turned onto a main street.  Students whizzed by on bicycles, black robes flapping in the mild spring air.  A lone automobile bounced over the cobbles.  The sky was a cloudless, blazing blue.

 

“Should we stop at Blackwell’s?” Lindsay mused.  “No, I suppose we’re already late.”

 

“Whatever you want, Lindsay,” Michael said.  “Just lead the way.  I’m not in a hurry.”

 

She slowed to a stop and pierced him with a stare.

 

“Don’t you want to see him?”

 

 

 

 

_Egypt, 1925._

 

 _COMING UP ROSES_ managed to bring them back over the desert, hiccuping and bouncing.  They jettisoned their various treasures as the engines died.  Ray glided her down just beyond the airfield, and nothing caught fire.  They evaded the British air force, although it was a near thing, and crept like thieves into the city proper.

 

The air over Thebes was still hazy.  There were workers swarming the Institute like ants, noses and mouths carefully wrapped, breaking their backs over their shovels as they tried to dig the building out of the sand.

 

Gus shouted when he saw them.  He ran at them, swinging a shovel.  Then, unexpectedly, he threw the shovel aside and dragged Michael and the Hunters into his arms.  

 

He hugged Geoff, kissed Griffon on the cheek, and shook Jack’s hand.  He peered into Ryan’s eyes and examined his tongue.  He shouted at Gavin, offered Ray a job, clapped Michael on the back and offered _him_ a job, and promoted Lindsay on the spot.

 

A week or so after the dust settled, and the Institute reopened, Michael and Ray said their goodbyes.  Only Lindsay came to see them off, but Michael thought he caught a glimpse of Ryan, hooded once more, waving goodbye a mile or so down the bank.

 

They took a boat up the Nile to Cairo and rode a beautiful, trim little train to the port city of Alexandria.  From Alexandria, they stowed away on the _Dacia_ and steamed all the way to Istanbul, the wind at their backs. 

 

Even if Michael never went back to Egypt again, it would be too soon.  He had a feeling the jackal man felt the same way.  

 

Aboard the _Dacia_ , Ray kept glancing over at Michael, opening his mouth and shutting it again.  Michael could see him doing it from the corner of his eye.

 

"You gonna write him?" Ray said eventually.

 

Michael ignored him and stared out the porthole into the deepening pink of dawn.  He wasn't going to write.  There had been nothing left to say.  He'd brought Gavin back, sure, but in the end, there was no way around it:  He'd begged Gavin not to give his heart to the sandman, and Gavin had done it anyway.  

 

That last morning in Thebes, the first truly haze-free day since the sandstorm, the sun had been shining in Gavin's little side room at the Institute.  Gavin drifted in and out of consciousness; Griffon and Geoff were glued to his bedside, watching over him like a pair of scruffy, trigger-happy guardian angels.  Michael shook their hands and wished them well.

 

 

 

 

Then: From Istanbul to Sofia, from Sofia to Belgrade, Belgrade to Zagreb, Zagreb to Munich.  A weekend in Stuttgart.  Paris, then Calais.

 

They had a few adventures, a few misadventures.  Nothing to write home about.  So what if Michael was banned from Belgrade, and Ray couldn’t enter the Hagia Sofia again on pain of death?  They ate and drank and played cards; they danced and laughed and slept deeply and often, and when they slept, they didn’t dream.

 

They crossed the Channel in September.  A month later, they boarded the _RMS Cedric_ in Liverpool, New York bound.

 

 

 

 

_Exeter College, Oxford.  1927._

 

“Er—Lindsay.  Michael.”

 

Michael’s skin prickled.  They’d stepped beyond the protection of the trees, and the sun momentarily blinded him.  He shaded his eyes and squinted:

 

After a year and a half out of the sun, Gavin was paler than Michael had ever seen him, almost ghostly white against the black of his gown.  His face still had that awful, thin, stretched look, that hunger that had never really gone away, not even after Gus ordered bed rest and hearty soups and god knows what other remedies, medical or magical.  The shadows under his eyes were so dark they looked like bruises.  Michael couldn't see the medallion, but he knew Gavin was wearing it under his shirt.  Bending death.

 

“Gavin!”  Lindsay embraced him readily.  “You’re looking so much better.”

 

Gavin smiled his crooked smile, and Michael felt his chest grow hot and tight.  

 

“You, too, Tuggey,” Gavin said, holding her at arm’s length and looking her over.  “Been followin’ your lectures.  Proper archaeologist, you are.  And you, Michael—”  He broke off, gulped.  “You’re lookin’ well.”

  

“Well, they wouldn’t let him into the lecture hall in just his shirtsleeves,” Lindsay said.

 

“I clean up okay, I guess,” Michael said.

 

 

 

 

 

_Brooklyn.  July 15, 1926._

 

It was hot as fuck that Thursday afternoon, and Michael wanted nothing more than to try to drown himself in a bathtub full of ice cubes.  Ray dragged him outside anyway, insisting that they had to try Nedick’s new orange drink because it was “a cold breeze in a bottle.”  

 

The brutal heat had thinned the line.  After about ten minutes of waiting, they were sweating under a fan at the counter, watching a waitress siphon orange liquid into a tumbler.

 

The drink was flat and pulpy and immeasurably sour, and after one sip, Ray pushed his glass towards Michael and ordered a Coke.

 

Someone had left the weekend issue on the seat beside them.

 

_CITY OF THE DEAD DISCOVERED IN SANDS OF EGYPT. Insights into the Egyptian way of death from bright young archaeologist and native daughter of Texas. Lord Carnarvon, Howard Carter comment._

 

“Sweet, sweet cola,” Ray said.

 

“Hey, Ray,” Michael said.  “Look at this.”

 

_Miss Tuggey has expressed an earnest desire to return to her cherished dig site. Yet before she may do so, she must first contend with the lecture circuit that will take her across the United States and the great and storied cities of Europe. Miss Tuggey will be joined on her transatlantic tour by fellow Egyptologist Gustavo R. Sorola and Canadian heiress and adventuress Barbara Dunkelman—_

 

Ray flipped to the continuation on C4 and ran his finger down the schedule.

 

“San Francisco,” he read.  “Houston, Chicago. . .London, Paris.”  He sucked at his straw.  “Oh, hey.  Oxford University, twenty-first of May through June third.”

 

“Hm?” Michael said.  Lindsay hadn’t written in a while, and he guessed this must be the reason why.  Gus had kidnapped her.

 

“I hear Oxford’s nice that time of year,” Ray said.

 

 

 

 

_January 4, 1926._

 

“This is for you,” Mama Narvaez said.  Papa Narvaez and Ray had gone for a walk, and she and Michael were relaxing by the fire while she wrote her letters.  She held out the creamy white envelope.

 

The return address was simply _Mme de Ramessée_ , but Michael knew the letter was from Griffon.  

 

Heart pounding, Michael tore it open.

 

The paper was heavy and durable and still smelled of lavender, somehow, even after its journey over the Atlantic.  The letterhead was embossed with a shield and a pair of unicorns rampant.  Curly golden script announced the _Hôtel Le Bristol_.

 

“Fancy, fancy,” Michael murmured.

 

The message was short.   _Merry Christmas, Michael, and Ray, if you’re there,_ it read.   _We’re thinking of you.  You can find us these days on 158 Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré.  You’re always welcome._

 

Michael turned the letter over.  A postscript in Geoff’s hideous scrawl added that Gavin had gone back to recuperate at his family home in Oxfordshire.

 

 

 

 

_1927._

 

Lindsay had an appointment with a librarian at the Bodleian.  “See you for supper, yeah?” she said and kissed them both on the cheek before dashing off.

 

Michael followed Gavin to a tea room on Broad Street.  Gavin ordered a pot of Assam for two; unbidden, the server brought them a plate of scones and two little pots of clotted cream and strawberry jam.  He delivered these to the table with a flourish, flashing a smile at Gavin before moving off to another table.

 

Michael pretended not to notice.  “So, Oxford, huh?” he said.

 

Gavin fiddled with his saucer.  “Welcomed with open arms,” he said.  “Oh, not because of me.  It’s on account of who my father is, and all.  Couldn’t say no to the great Professor Free, certainly not after he donated an entire funeral ship to the Exeter collection.  And my brother got a First, and I’ve got brains, so they say there’s some hope for me.  ’Course, I’m out on my arse the moment I stray from the straight ’n’ narrow.”

 

Michael ate in silence, fending off Gavin’s attempts to ply him with sugar and milk.  Gavin didn’t eat; he just drank his tea slowly, nursing the cup with both hands.

 

At length, Michael pushed his plate aside, wiped his mouth.  

 

“Are you happy, Gavin?” he said.  “Are you—doing all right?”

 

Gavin gazed into the red-brown depths of his tea.

 

“The sun over the desert,” he said, slowly.  “I think about it often, the noonday sun blazing on the sand.  I’ll never be able to feel that warmth again.”  He drank.  “How’s Ray doin’?”

 

Michael drew his reaching hands back and hid them under the table.

 

“Ray’s great,” he said, voice rough.  “Still cruising around the world with Tiff.  They had a run-in with some cannibals in French Polynesia, I think, but everyone's fine.  He sends a postcard now and then.”

 

 

 

 

_1926._

 

Postcards arrived from Jack and Ryan, one after the other.  Jack sent a series of black and white etchings of Texas state government buildings; Ryan sent reproductions of watercolor paintings.

 

Even their handwriting was similar.

 

Jack wrote that he was building a house.  Ryan, far away in Budapest, wrote that he was doing better, except for the dreams.   _Edgar and I are getting along just fine_ , he wrote.

 

Some time later, in a joint card featuring the Arc de Triomphe and a cartouche that looked as though it had been drawn with blood, Jack wrote, _Can you believe he named it Edgar?  It’s a demonic alter ego, not a pet cow._

 

 _Live and let live_ , Ryan wrote. _See you soon._

 

 

 

 

_Magdalen Bridge.  May 22, 1927._

 

Michael paced along the bank of a wide and green and placid river, gripping a bottle of champagne by the neck and a basket of sandwiches and strawberries.  Students laughed and picnicked and glided across the water in shallow boats.  Geese cackled in the fields on either bank.

 

He hadn’t slept a wink that night.  He felt queasy.

 

“Michael!” Gavin said, and Michael’s heart leapt.

 

He wasn’t wearing his gown today; just a plain blue suit.  Michael wondered if he was imagining it, but Gavin seemed livelier, brighter.

 

“Hi,” Michael said, smiling.

 

Gavin smiled back, shyly.  Then he saw the champagne and the picnic basket.  His eyes widened, and he went a little red in the face and shuffled his feet.

 

They’d talked about punting the night before, at supper with Lindsay.  She’d already been out on the river with Gus and Esther, and she told Michael he had to try it at least once.  Michael hadn’t wanted to take _Gavin_ onto the river, but Gavin insisted he wasn’t frightened, that he barely remembered drowning in the netherworld.

 

“Everything’s a bit flat, honestly,” he’d said.  “I can’t seem to _feel_.  Anyway, there’s always a hale and healthy, strappin’ young undergraduate nearby, ready to dive into the water and give me the kiss o’ life, so to speak.”

 

Lindsay had met Michael’s eyes over Gavin’s head and raised her eyebrows at him.  “Competition!” she’d mouthed.

 

Michael had choked on an idiotically large gulp of wine.  And then he had gone to his bed in the Old Bank Hotel and stared at the ceiling all fucking night.

 

 

 

 

Gavin lay semi-collapsed and languid in the punt as they pushed off, complaining about the spiders, idly brushing them off into the water but apparently unwilling to do anything further about them.

 

Michael steered them away from the bridge, trying not to ram them into the bank or tangle them up with the willow branches that hung over the water.  It was a bright, sunny day, and the river was crowded with other punters and boaters.

 

Gavin, pouring champagne, said he knew a secluded spot.

 

 

 

 

Michael had kept Ray’s letter balled up in his pocket for the better part of a month.  He’d pulled it out as the ’bus trundled up to Gloucester Green and read it again.  He’d taken it out that night at the Old Bank and read it once more.  

 

On stationery pink and festooned with roses, Ray said that he and Tiff were back in Belgrade.  He explained that the entire extended Narvaez family was gathering in Paris, that the wedding was set for the end of June.

 

 _You’ve been wandering all these months,_ Ray wrote.   _Looking for something.  I hope that by the time you get this letter, you’re a little closer to finding it.  Sorry about the shrunken head, bro.  Tiff'll swear up and down that belongs to a Tahitian cannibal, but it’s just a coconut._

 

Michael had read that line about fifty times, but he still smiled at it. He read on.

 

_See you in Paris, best man.  You’re Free to bring whomever you want._

 

 

 

 

“It was the worst feeling in the world,” Gavin said.  “Knowin’ I was about to die and leave you behind.”  He laughed, wryly.  “But here we are, two years later, without a single mincin’ word exchanged between the two of our sorry selves, and I’m still alive, somehow, and thrivin’, academically if not physically. . .”

 

The world was quiet, except for the sweet burbling of the river and the calling of birds, and Gavin, speaking softly in the bottom of the punt, almost to himself.

 

“Oh, Michael,” Gavin said, wistful, addressing Michael’s reflection in the water, “oh, Michael.  When I saw you again yesterday, everything went hot, only you’re so clean and respectable now, all done up, every button polished, not even a bit of dirt on your silly soddin’ face, lookin’ at me like y’ barely know me, like y’ barely _want_ to know me!”

 

Michael pulled the pole out of the water and set it down in the punt, and let them drift through the curtain of hanging willows.  

 

“Michael, I’ve never been able to forget,” Gavin said, plunging recklessly on.  “It’s not the sand I think about at night.  It’s a lie that I haven’t felt anything.  I’m cold, Michael, I—I—I’ve missed you.”

 

“Gavin,” Michael said.  His heart was pounding in his ears.

 

“Griffon wants me t’ go to Paris, but I can’t, Michael.  I can’t unless you say you’ll come with me.  I’ve been trying to find the words to—to ask you to _forgive_ —”

 

There was nothing left to say, again.  What _could_ he say?  That he'd been lonely, too?  That he  _had_ written, after all, night after night, piles on fucking piles of chicken scratch letters, and thrown them all into the grate?  That it wasn't the sun over the desert he missed, but the heat and sparkle of Gavin's  _ridiculous_ smile—

 

“Aw, shit,” Michael said, swallowing, “listen, Gavin,” and he crawled down into the bottom of the punt, heedless of the spiders, or the stupid fucking champagne, and put his hands on Gavin’s face and kissed him.

 

Gavin gave a little gasp, staring up at him.  His eyes were so fucking bright and hopeful and the color was surging up in his cheeks—

 

“Michael,” he said.  “Michael, Michael—”

 

_fin_


End file.
